The country between Oxford6 and Blenheim is not particularly interesting, being almost level, or undulating very slightly; nor is Oxfordshire, agriculturally, a rich part of England. We saw one or two hamlets, and I especially remember a picturesque7 old gabled house at a turnpike-gate, and, altogether, the wayside scenery had an aspect of old-fashioned English life; but there was nothing very memorable8 till we reached Woodstock, and stopped to water our horses at the Black Bear. This neighborhood is called New Woodstock, but has by no means the brand-new appearance of an American town, being a large village of stone houses, most of them pretty well time-worn and weather-stained. The Black Bear is an ancient inn, large and respectable, with balustraded staircases, and intricate passages and corridors, and queer old pictures and engravings hanging in the entries and apartments. We ordered a lunch (the most delightful9 of English institutions, next to dinner) to be ready against our return, and then resumed our drive to Blenheim.
The park-gate of Blenheim stands close to the end of the village street of Woodstock. Immediately on passing through its portals we saw the stately palace in the distance, but made a wide circuit of the park before approaching it. This noble park contains three thousand acres of land, and is fourteen miles in circumference11. Having been, in part, a royal domain12 before it was granted to the Marlborough family, it contains many trees of unsurpassed antiquity13, and has doubtless been the haunt of game and deer for centuries. We saw pheasants in abundance, feeding in the open lawns and glades14; and the stags tossed their antlers and bounded away, not affrighted, but only shy and gamesome, as we drove by. It is a magnificent pleasure-ground, not too tamely kept, nor rigidly15 subjected within rule, but vast enough to have lapsed16 back into nature again, after all the pains that the landscape-gardeners of Queen Anne's time bestowed18 on it, when the domain of Blenheim was scientifically laid out. The great, knotted, slanting19 trunks of the old oaks do not now look as if man had much intermeddled with their growth and postures20. The trees of later date, that were set out in the Great Duke's time, are arranged on the plan of the order of battle in which the illustrious commander ranked his troops at Blenheim; but the ground covered is so extensive, and the trees now so luxuriant, that the spectator is not disagreeably conscious of their standing21 in military array, as if Orpheus had summoned them together by beat of drum. The effect must have been very formal a hundred and fifty years ago, but has ceased to be so,—although the trees, I presume, have kept their ranks with even more fidelity22 than Marlborough's veterans did.
One of the park-keepers, on horseback, rode beside our carriage, pointing out the choice views, and glimpses at the palace, as we drove through the domain. There is a very large artificial lake (to say the truth, it seemed to me fully23 worthy24 of being compared with the Welsh lakes, at least, if not with those of Westmoreland), which was created by Capability25 Brown, and fills the basin that he scooped26 for it, just as if Nature had poured these broad waters into one of her own valleys. It is a most beautiful object at a distance, and not less so on its immediate10 banks; for the water is very pure, being supplied by a small river, of the choicest transparency, which was turned thitherward for the purpose. And Blenheim owes not merely this water-scenery, but almost all its other beauties, to the contrivance of man. Its natural features are not striking; but Art has effected such wonderful things that the uninstructed visitor would never guess that nearly the whole scene was but the embodied27 thought of a human mind. A skilful28 painter hardly does more for his blank sheet of canvas than the landscape-gardener, the planter, the arranger of trees, has done for the monotonous30 surface of Blenheim,—making the most of every undulation,—flinging down a hillock, a big lump of earth out of a giant's hand, wherever it was needed,— putting in beauty as often as there was a niche31 for it,—opening vistas33 to every point that deserved to be seen, and throwing a veil of impenetrable foliage34 around what ought to be hidden;—and then, to be sure, the lapse17 of a century has softened35 the harsh outline of man's labors36, and has given the place back to Nature again with the addition of what consummate37 science could achieve.
After driving a good way, we came to a battlemented tower and adjoining house, which used to be the residence of the Ranger29 of Woodstock Park, who held charge of the property for the King before the Duke of Marlborough possessed38 it. The keeper opened the door for us, and in the entrance-hall we found various things that had to do with the chase and woodland sports. We mounted the staircase, through several stories, up to the top of the tower, whence there was a view of the spires39 of Oxford, and of points much farther off,—very indistinctly seen, however, as is usually the case with the misty40 distances of England. Returning to the ground-floor, we were ushered41 into the room in which died Wilmot, the wicked Earl of Rochester, who was Ranger of the Park in Charles II.'s time. It is a low and bare little room, with a window in front, and a smaller one behind; and in the contiguous entrance-room there are the remains42 of an old bedstead, beneath the canopy43 of which, perhaps, Rochester may have made the penitent44 end that Bishop45 Burnet attributes to him. I hardly know what it is, in this poor fellow's character, which affects us with greater tenderness on his behalf than for all the other profligates of his day, who seem to have been neither better nor worse than himself. I rather suspect that he had a human heart which never quite died out of him, and the warmth of which is still faintly perceptible amid the dissolute trash which he left behind.
Methinks, if such good fortune ever befell a bookish man, I should choose this lodge47 for my own residence, with the topmost room of the tower for a study, and all the seclusion48 of cultivated wildness beneath to ramble49 in. There being no such possibility, we drove on, catching50 glimpses of the palace in new points of view, and by and by came to Rosamond's Well. The particular tradition that connects Fair Rosamond with it is not now in my memory; but if Rosamond ever lived and loved, and ever had her abode51 in the maze52 of Woodstock, it may well be believed that she and Henry sometimes sat beside this spring. It gushes53 out from a bank, through some old stone-work, and dashes its little cascade55 (about as abundant as one might turn out of a large pitcher) into a pool, whence it steals away towards the lake, which is not far removed. The water is exceedingly cold, and as pure as the legendary56 Rosamond was not, and is fancied to possess medicinal virtues57, like springs at which saints have quenched58 their thirst. There were two or three old women and some children in attendance with tumblers, which they present to visitors, full of the consecrated59 water; but most of us filled the tumblers for ourselves, and drank.
Thence we drove to the Triumphal Pillar which was erected60 in honor of the Great Duke, and on the summit of which he stands, in a Roman garb61, holding a winged figure of Victory in his hand, as an ordinary man might hold a bird. The column is I know not how many feet high, but lofty enough, at any rate, to elevate Marlborough far above the rest of the world, and to be visible a long way off; and it is so placed in reference to other objects, that, wherever the hero wandered about his grounds, and especially as he issued from his mansion62, he must inevitably63 have been reminded of his glory. In truth, until I came to Blenheim, I never had so positive and material an idea of what Fame really is—of what the admiration64 of his country can do for a successful warrior—as I carry away with me and shall always retain. Unless he had the moral force of a thousand men together, his egotism (beholding66 himself everywhere, imbuing67 the entire soil, growing in the woods, rippling68 and gleaming in the water, and pervading69 the very air with his greatness) must have been swollen70 within him like the liver of a Strasburg goose. On the huge tablets inlaid into the pedestal of the column, the entire Act of Parliament, bestowing71 Blenheim on the Duke of Marlborough and his posterity72, is engraved73 in deep letters, painted black on the marble ground. The pillar stands exactly a mile from the principal front of the palace, in a straight line with the precise centre of its entrance-hall; so that, as already said, it was the Duke's principal object of contemplation.
We now proceeded to the palace-gate, which is a great pillared archway, of wonderful loftiness and state, giving admittance into a spacious74 quadrangle. A stout75, elderly, and rather surly footman in livery appeared at the entrance, and took possession of whatever canes76, umbrellas, and parasols he could get hold of, in order to claim sixpence on our departure. This had a somewhat ludicrous effect. There is much public outcry against the meanness of the present Duke in his arrangements for the admission of visitors (chiefly, of course, his native countrymen) to view the magnificent palace which their forefathers77 bestowed upon his own. In many cases, it seems hard that a private abode should be exposed to the intrusion of the public merely because the proprietor78 has inherited or created a splendor79 which attracts general curiosity; insomuch that his home loses its sanctity and seclusion for the very reason that it is better than other men's houses. But in the case of Blenheim, the public have certainly an equitable80 claim to admission, both because the fame of its first inhabitant is a national possession, and because the mansion was a national gift, one of the purposes of which was to be a token of gratitude81 and glory to the English people themselves. If a man chooses to be illustrious, he is very likely to incur82 some little inconveniences himself, and entail83 them on his posterity. Nevertheless, his present Grace of Marlborough absolutely ignores the public claim above suggested, and (with a thrift84 of which even the hero of Blenheim himself did not set the example) sells tickets admitting six persons at ten shillings; if only one person enters the gate, he must pay for six; and if there are seven in company, two tickets are required to admit them. The attendants, who meet you everywhere in the park and palace, expect fees on their own private account,—their noble master pocketing the ten shillings. But, to be sure, the visitor gets his money's worth, since it buys him the right to speak just as freely of the Duke of Marlborough as if he were the keeper of the Cremorne Gardens.
[The above was written two or three years ago, or more; and the Duke of that day has since transmitted his coronet to his successor, who, we understand, has adopted much more liberal arrangements. There is seldom anything to criticise85 or complain of, as regards the facility of obtaining admission to interesting private houses in England.]
Passing through a gateway86 on the opposite side of the quadrangle, we had before us the noble classic front of the palace, with its two projecting wings. We ascended87 the lofty steps of the portal, and were admitted into the entrance-hall, the height of which, from floor to ceiling, is not much less than seventy feet, being the entire elevation88 of the edifice89. The hall is lighted by windows in the upper story, and, it being a clear, bright day, was very radiant with lofty sunshine, amid which a swallow was flitting to and fro. The ceiling was painted by Sir James Thornhill in some allegorical design (doubtless commemorative of Marlborough's victories), the purport90 of which I did not take the trouble to make out, —contenting myself with the general effect, which was most splendidly and effectively ornamental92.
We were guided through the show-rooms by a very civil person, who allowed us to take pretty much our own time in looking at the pictures. The collection is exceedingly valuable,—many of these works of Art having been presented to the Great Duke by the crowned heads of England or the Continent. One room was all aglow93 with pictures by Rubens; and there were works of Raphael, and many other famous painters, any one of which would be sufficient to illustrate94 the meanest house that might contain it. I remember none of then, however (not being in a picture-seeing mood), so well as Vandyck's large and familiar picture of Charles I. on horseback, with a figure and face of melancholy95 dignity such as never by any other hand was put on canvas. Yet, on considering this face of Charles (which I find often repeated in half-lengths) and translating it from the ideal into literalism, I doubt whether the unfortunate king was really a handsome or impressive-looking man: a high, thin-ridged nose, a meagre, hatchet96 face, and reddish hair and beard,—these are the literal facts. It is the painter's art that has thrown such pensive97 and shadowy grace around him.
On our passage through this beautiful suite98 of apartments, we saw, through the vista32 of open doorways99, a boy of ten or twelve years old coming towards us from the farther rooms. He had on a straw hat, a linen100 sack that had certainly been washed and re-washed for a summer or two, and gray trousers a good deal worn,—a dress, in short, which an American mother in middle station would have thought too shabby for her darling school-boy's ordinary wear. This urchin's face was rather pale (as those of English children are apt to be, quite as often as our own), but he had pleasant eyes, an intelligent look, and an agreeable, boyish manner. It was Lord Sunderland, grandson of the present Duke, and heir—though not, I think, in the direct line—of the blood of the great Marlborough, and of the title and estate.
After passing through the first suite of rooms, we were conducted through a corresponding suite on the opposite side of the entrance-hall. These latter apartments are most richly adorned101 with tapestries102, wrought103 and presented to the first Duke by a sisterhood of Flemish nuns104; they look like great, glowing pictures, and completely cover the walls of the rooms. The designs purport to represent the Duke's battles and sieges; and everywhere we see the hero himself, as large as life, and as gorgeous in scarlet and gold as the holy sisters could make him, with a three-cornered hat and flowing wig105, reining106 in his horse, and extending his leading-staff in the attitude of command. Next to Marlborough, Prince Eugene is the most prominent figure. In the way of upholstery, there can never have been anything more magnificent than these tapestries; and, considered as works of Art, they have quite as much merit as nine pictures out of ten.
One whole wing of the palace is occupied by the library, a most noble room, with a vast perspective length from end to end. Its atmosphere is brighter and more cheerful than that of most libraries: a wonderful contrast to the old college-libraries of Oxford, and perhaps less sombre and suggestive of thoughtfulness than any large library ought to be, inasmuch as so many studious brains as have left their deposit on the shelves cannot have conspired107 without producing a very serious and ponderous108 result. Both walls and ceiling are white, and there are elaborate doorways and fireplaces of white marble. The floor is of oak, so highly polished that our feet slipped upon it as if it had been New England ice. At one end of the room stands a statue of Queen Anne in her royal robes, which are so admirably designed and exquisitely109 wrought that the spectator certainly gets a strong conception of her royal dignity; while the face of the statue, fleshy and feeble, doubtless conveys a suitable idea of her personal character. The marble of this work, long as it has stood there, is as white as snow just fallen, and must have required most faithful and religious care to keep it so. As for the volumes of the library, they are wired within the cases and turn their gilded110 backs upon the visitor, keeping their treasures of wit and wisdom just as intangible as if still in the unwrought mines of human thought.
I remember nothing else in the palace, except the chapel112, to which we were conducted last, and where we saw a splendid monument to the first Duke and Duchess, sculptured by Rysbrack, at the cost, it is said, of forty thousand pounds. The design includes the statues of the deceased dignitaries, and various allegorical flourishes, fantasies, and confusions; and beneath sleep the great Duke and his proud wife, their veritable bones and dust, and probably all the Marlboroughs that have since died. It is not quite a comfortable idea, that these mouldy ancestors still inhabit, after their fashion, the house where their successors spend the passing day; but the adulation lavished113 upon the hero of Blenheim could not have been consummated114, unless the palace of his lifetime had become likewise a stately mausoleum over his remains,— and such we felt it all to be, after gazing at his tomb.
The next business was to see the private gardens. An old Scotch115 under-gardener admitted us and led the way, and seemed to have a fair prospect116 of earning the fee all by himself; but by and by another respectable Scotchman made his appearance and took us in charge, proving to be the head-gardener in person. He was extremely intelligent and agreeable, talking both scientifically and lovingly about trees and plants, of which there is every variety capable of English cultivation117. Positively118, the Garden of Eden cannot have been more beautiful than this private garden of Blenheim. It contains three hundred acres, and by the artful circumlocution119 of the paths, and the undulations, and the skilfully120 interposed clumps121 of trees, is made to appear limitless. The sylvan122 delights of a whole country are compressed into this space, as whole fields of Persian roses go to the concoction123 of an ounce of precious attar. The world within that garden-fence is not the same weary and dusty world with which we outside mortals are conversant124; it is a finer, lovelier, more harmonious125 Nature; and the Great Mother lends herself kindly126 to the gardener's will, knowing that he will make evident the half-obliterated traits of her pristine127 and ideal beauty, and allow her to take all the credit and praise to herself. I doubt whether there is ever any winter within that precinct,—any clouds, except the fleecy ones of summer. The sunshine that I saw there rests upon my recollection of it as if it were eternal. The lawns and glades are like the memory of places where one has wandered when first in love.
What a good and happy life might be spent in a paradise like this! And yet, at that very moment, the besotted Duke (ah! I have let out a secret which I meant to keep to myself; but the ten shillings must pay for all) was in that very garden (for the guide told us so, and cautioned our young people not to be too uproarious), and, if in a condition for arithmetic, was thinking of nothing nobler than how many ten-shilling tickets had that day been sold. Republican as I am, I should still love to think that noblemen lead noble lives, and that all this stately and beautiful environment may serve to elevate them a little way above the rest of us. If it fail to do so, the disgrace falls equally upon the whole race of mortals as on themselves; because it proves that no more favorable conditions of existence would eradicate128 our vices129 and weaknesses. How sad, if this be so! Even a herd130 of swine, eating the acorns131 under those magnificent oaks of Blenheim, would be cleanlier and of better habits than ordinary swine.
Well, all that I have written is pitifully meagre, as a description of Blenheim; and I bate132 to leave it without some more adequate expression of the noble edifice, with its rich domain, all as I saw them in that beautiful sunshine; for, if a day had been chosen out of a hundred years, it could not have been a finer one. But I must give up the attempt; only further remarking that the finest trees here were cedars133, of which I saw one—and there may have been many such—immense in girth, and not less than three centuries old. I likewise saw a vast heap of laurel, two hundred feet in circumference, all growing from one root; and the gardener offered to show us another growth of twice that stupendous size. If the Great Duke himself had been buried in that spot, his heroic heart could not have been the seed of a more plentiful134 crop of laurels135.
We now went back to the Black Bear, and sat down to a cold collation136, of which we ate abundantly, and drank (in the good old English fashion) a due proportion of various delightful liquors. A stranger in England, in his rambles137 to various quarters of the country, may learn little in regard to wines (for the ordinary English taste is simple, though sound, in that particular), but he makes acquaintance with more varieties of hop46 and malt liquor than he previously139 supposed to exist. I remember a sort of foaming140 stuff, called hop-champagne142, which is very vivacious143, and appears to be a hybrid144 between ale and bottled cider. Another excellent tipple145 for warm weather is concocted146 by mixing brown-stout or bitter ale with ginger-beer, the foam141 of which stirs up the heavier liquor from its depths, forming a compound of singular vivacity147 and sufficient body. But of all things ever brewed149 from malt (unless it be the Trinity Ale of Cambridge, which I drank long afterwards, and which Barry Cornwall has celebrated150 in immortal151 verse), commend me to the Archdeacon, as the Oxford scholars call it, in honor of the jovial152 dignitary who first taught these erudite worthies153 how to brew148 their favorite nectar. John Barleycorn has given his very heart to this admirable liquor; it is a superior kind of ale, the Prince of Ales, with a richer flavor and a mightier154 spirit than you can find elsewhere in this weary world. Much have we been strengthened and encouraged by the potent155 blood of the Archdeacon!
A few days after our excursion to Blenheim, the same party set forth156, in two flies, on a tour to some other places of interest in the neighborhood of Oxford. It was again a delightful day; and, in truth, every day, of late, had been so pleasant that it seemed as if each must be the very last of such perfect weather; and yet the long succession had given us confidence in as many more to come. The climate of England has been shamefully157 maligned158, its sulkiness and asperities159 are not nearly so offensive as Englishmen tell us (their climate being the only attribute of their country which they never overvalue); and the really good summer-weather is the very kindest and sweetest that the world knows.
We first drove to the village of Cumnor, about six miles from Oxford, and alighted at the entrance of the church. Here, while waiting for the keys, we looked at an old wall of the churchyard, piled up of loose gray stones which are said to have once formed a portion of Cumnor Hall, celebrated in Mickle's ballad160 and Scott's romance. The hall must have been in very close vicinity to the church,—not more than twenty yards off; and I waded161 through the long, dewy grass of the churchyard, and tried to peep over the wall, in hopes to discover some tangible111 and traceable remains of the edifice. But the wall was just too high to be overlooked, and difficult to clamber over without tumbling down some of the stones; so I took the word of one of our party, who had been here before, that there is nothing interesting on the other side. The churchyard is in rather a neglected state, and seems not to have been mown for the benefit of the parson's cow; it contains a good many gravestones, of which I remember only some upright memorials of slate162 to individuals of the name of Tabbs.
Soon a woman arrived with the key of the church-door, and we entered the simple old edifice, which has the pavement of lettered tombstones, the sturdy pillars and low arches and other ordinary characteristics of an English country church. One or two pews, probably those of the gentlefolk of the neighborhood, were better furnished than the rest, but all in a modest style. Near the high altar, in the holiest place, there is an oblong, angular, ponderous tomb of blue marble, built against the wall, and surmounted163 by a carved canopy of the same material; and over the tomb, and beneath the canopy, are two monumental brasses165, such as we oftener see inlaid into a church pavement. On these brasses are engraved the figures of a gentleman in armor and a lady in an antique garb, each about a foot high, devoutly166 kneeling in prayer; and there is a long Latin inscription167 likewise cut into the enduring brass164, bestowing the highest eulogies168 on the character of Anthony Forster, who, with his virtuous169 dame170, lies buried beneath this tombstone. His is the knightly172 figure that kneels above; and if Sir Walter Scott ever saw this tomb, he must have had an even greater than common disbelief in laudatory173 epitaphs, to venture on depicting174 Anthony Forster in such lines as blacken him in the romance. For my part, I read the inscription in full faith, and believe the poor deceased gentleman to be a much-wronged individual, with good grounds for bringing an action of slander175 in the courts above.
But the circumstance, lightly as we treat it, has its serious moral. What nonsense it is, this anxiety, which so worries us, about our good fame, or our bad fame, after death! If it were of the slightest real moment, our reputations would have been placed by Providence176 more in our own power, and less in other people's, than we now find them to be. If poor Anthony Forster happens to have met Sir Walter in the other world, I doubt whether he has ever thought it worth while to complain of the latter's misrepresentations.
We did not remain long in the church, as it contains nothing else of interest; and driving through the village, we passed a pretty large and rather antique-looking inn, bearing the sign of the Bear and Ragged177 Staff. It could not be so old, however, by at least a hundred years, as Giles Gosling's time; nor is there any other object to remind the visitor of the Elizabethan age, unless it be a few ancient cottages, that are perhaps of still earlier date. Cumnor is not nearly so large a village, nor a place of such mark, as one anticipates from its romantic and legendary fame; but, being still inaccessible178 by railway, it has retained more of a sylvan character than we often find in English country towns. In this retired179 neighborhood the road is narrow and bordered with grass, and sometimes interrupted by gates; the hedges grow in unpruned luxuriance; there is not that close-shaven neatness and trimness that characterize the ordinary English landscape. The whole scene conveys the idea of seclusion and remoteness. We met no travellers, whether on foot or otherwise.
I cannot very distinctly trace out this day's peregrinations; but, after leaving Cumnor a few miles behind us, I think we came to a ferry over the Thames, where an old woman served as ferryman, and pulled a boat across by means of a rope stretching from shore to shore. Our two vehicles being thus placed on the other side, we resumed our drive,—first glancing, however, at the old woman's antique cottage, with its stone floor, and the circular settle round the kitchen fireplace, which was quite in the mediaeval English style.
We next stopped at Stanton Harcourt, where we were received at the parsonage with a hospitality which we should take delight in describing, if it were allowable to make public acknowledgment of the private and personal kindnesses which we never failed to find ready for our needs. An American in an English house will soon adopt the opinion that the English are the very kindest people on earth, and will retain that idea as long, at least, as he remains on the inner side of the threshold. Their magnetism180 is of a kind that repels181 strongly while you keep beyond a certain limit, but attracts as forcibly if you get within the magic line.
It was at this place, if I remember right, that I heard a gentleman ask a friend of mine whether he was the author of "The Red Letter A"; and, after some consideration (for he did not seem to recognize his own book, at first, under this improved title), our countryman responded, doubtfully, that he believed so. The gentleman proceeded to inquire whether our friend had spent much time in America,—evidently thinking that he must have been caught young, and have had a tincture of English breeding, at least, if not birth, to speak the language so tolerably, and appear so much like other people. This insular182 narrowness is exceedingly queer, and of very frequent occurrence, and is quite as much a characteristic of men of education and culture as of clowns.
Stanton Harcourt is a very curious old place. It was formerly183 the seat of the ancient family of Harcourt, which now has its principal abode at Nuneham Courtney, a few miles off. The parsonage is a relic184 of the family mansion, or castle, other portions of which are close at hand; for, across the garden, rise two gray towers, both of them picturesquely185 venerable, and interesting for more than their antiquity. One of these towers, in its entire capacity, from height to depth, constituted the kitchen of the ancient castle, and is still used for domestic purposes, although it has not, nor ever had, a chimney; or we might rather say, it is itself one vast chimney, with a hearth186 of thirty feet square, and a flue and aperture187 of the same size. There are two huge fireplaces within, and the interior walls of the tower are blackened with the smoke that for centuries used to gush54 forth from them, and climb upward, seeking an exit through some wide air-holes in the comical roof, full seventy feet above. These lofty openings were capable of being so arranged, with reference to the wind, that the cooks are said to have been seldom troubled by the smoke; and here, no doubt, they were accustomed to roast oxen whole, with as little fuss and ado as a modern cook would roast a fowl188. The inside of the tower is very dim and sombre (being nothing but rough stone walls, lighted only from the apertures189 above mentioned), and has still a pungent190 odor of smoke and soot191, the reminiscence of the fires and feasts of generations that have passed away. Methinks the extremest range of domestic economy lies between an American cooking-stove and the ancient kitchen, seventy dizzy feet in height and all one fireplace, of Stanton Harcourt.
Now—the place being without a parallel in England, and therefore necessarily beyond the experience of an American—it is somewhat remarkable192, that, while we stood gazing at this kitchen, I was haunted and perplexed193 by an idea that somewhere or other I had seen just this strange spectacle before.—The height, the blackness, the dismal194 void, before my eyes, seemed as familiar as the decorous neatness of my grandmother's kitchen; only my unaccountable memory of the scene was lighted up with an image of lurid195 fires blazing all round the dim interior circuit of the tower. I had never before had so pertinacious196 an attack, as I could not but suppose it, of that odd state of mind wherein we fitfully and teasingly remember some previous scene or incident, of which the one now passing appears to be but the echo and reduplication. Though the explanation of the mystery did not for some time occur to me, I may as well conclude the matter here. In a letter of Pope's, addressed to the Duke of Buckingham, there is an account of Stanton Harcourt (as I now find, although the name is not mentioned), where he resided while translating a part of the "Iliad." It is one of the most admirable pieces of description in the language,—playful and picturesque, with fine touches of humorous pathos,—and conveys as perfect a picture as ever was drawn197 of a decayed English country-house; and among other rooms, most of which have since crumbled198 down and disappeared, he dashes off the grim aspect of this kitchen,—which, moreover, he peoples with witches, engaging Satan himself as headcook, who stirs the infernal caldrons that seethe199 and bubble over the fires. This letter, and others relative to his abode here, were very familiar to my earlier reading, and, remaining still fresh at the bottom of my memory, caused the weird200 and ghostly sensation that came over one on beholding the real spectacle that had formerly been made so vivid to my imagination.
Our next visit was to the church which stands close by, and is quite as ancient as the remnants of the castle. In a chapel or side-aisle, dedicated201 to the Harcourts, are found some very interesting family monuments,—and among them, recumbent on a tombstone, the figure of an armed knight171 of the Lancastrian party, who was slain202 in the Wars of the Roses. His features, dress, and armor are painted in colors, still wonderfully fresh, and there still blushes the symbol of the Red Rose, denoting the faction203 for which he fought and died. His head rests on a marble or alabaster204 helmet; and on the tomb lies the veritable helmet, it is to be presumed, which he wore in battle,—a ponderous iron ease, with the visor complete, and remnants of the gilding205 that once covered it. The crest206 is a large peacock, not of metal, but of wood.
Very possibly, this helmet was but an heraldic adornment207 of his tomb; and, indeed, it seems strange that it has not been stolen before now, especially in Cromwell's time, when knightly tombs were little respected, and when armor was in request. However, it is needless to dispute with the dead knight about the identity of his iron pot, and we may as well allow it to be the very same that so often gave him the headache in his lifetime. Leaning against the wall, at the foot of the tomb, is the shaft208 of a spear, with a wofully tattered209 and utterly210 faded banner appended to it,—the knightly banner beneath which he marshalled his followers211 in the field. As it was absolutely falling to pieces, I tore off one little bit, no bigger than a finger-nail, and put it into my waistcoat-pocket; but seeking it subsequently, it was not to be found.
On the opposite side of the little chapel, two or three yards from this tomb, is another monument, on which lie, side by side, one of the same knightly race of Harcourts, and his lady. The tradition of the family is, that this knight was the standard-bearer of Henry of Richmond in the Battle of Bosworth Field; and a banner, supposed to be the same that he carried, now droops212 over his effigy213. It is just such a colorless silk rag as the one already described. The knight has the order of the Garter on his knee, and the lady wears it on her left arm, an odd place enough for a garter; but, if worn in its proper locality, it could not be decorously visible. The complete preservation214 and good condition of these statues, even to the minutest adornment of the sculpture, and their very noses,—the most vulnerable part of a marble man, as of a living one,—are miraculous215. Except in Westminster Abbey, among the chapels216 of the kings, I have seen none so well preserved. Perhaps they owe it to the loyalty217 of Oxfordshire, diffused218 throughout its neighborhood by the influence of the University, during the great Civil War and the rule of the Parliament. It speaks well, too, for the upright and kindly character of this old family, that the peasantry, among whom they had lived for ages, did not desecrate219 their tombs, when it might have been done with impunity220.
There are other and more recent memorials of the Harcourts, one of which is the tomb of the last lord, who died about a hundred years ago. His figure, like those of his ancestors, lies on the top of his tomb, clad, not in armor, but in his robes as a peer. The title is now extinct, but the family survives in a younger branch, and still holds this patrimonial221 estate, though they have long since quitted it as a residence.
We next went to see the ancient fish-ponds appertaining to the mansion, and which used to be of vast dietary importance to the family in Catholic times, and when fish was not otherwise attainable222. There are two or three, or more, of these reservoirs, one of which is of very respectable size,—large enough, indeed, to be really a picturesque object, with its grass-green borders, and the trees drooping224 over it, and the towers of the castle and the church reflected within the weed-grown depths of its smooth mirror. A sweet fragrance225, as it were, of ancient time and present quiet and seclusion was breathing all around; the sunshine of to-day had a mellow226 charm of antiquity in its brightness. These ponds are said still to breed abundance of such fish as love deep and quiet waters; but I saw only some minnows, and one or two snakes, which were lying among the weeds on the top of the water, sunning and bathing themselves at once.
I mentioned that there were two towers remaining of the old castle: the one containing the kitchen we have already visited; the other, still more interesting, is next to be described. It is some seventy feet high, gray and reverend, but in excellent repair, though I could not perceive that anything had been done to renovate227 it. The basement story was once the family chapel, and is, of course, still a consecrated spot. At one corner of the tower is a circular turret228, within which a narrow staircase, with worn steps of stone, winds round and round as it climbs upward, giving access to a chamber229 on each floor, and finally emerging on the battlemented roof. Ascending230 this turret-stair, and arriving at the third story, we entered a chamber, not large, though occupying the whole area of the tower, and lighted by a window on each side. It was wainscoted from floor to ceiling with dark oak, and had a little fireplace in one of the corners. The window-panes were small and set in lead. The curiosity of this room is, that it was once the residence of Pope, and that he here wrote a considerable part of the translation of Isomer, and likewise, no doubt, the admirable letters to which I have referred above. The room once contained a record by himself, scratched with a diamond on one of the window-panes (since removed for safe-keeping to Nuneham Courtney, where it was shown me), purporting231 that he had here finished the fifth book of the "Iliad" on such a day.
A poet has a fragrance about him, such as no other human being is gifted withal; it is indestructible, and clings forevermore to everything that he has touched. I was not impressed, at Blenheim, with any sense that the mighty232 Duke still haunted the palace that was created for him; but here, after a century and a half, we are still conscious of the presence of that decrepit233 little figure of Queen Anne's time, although he was merely a casual guest in the old tower, during one or two summer months. However brief the time and slight the connection, his spirit cannot be exorcised so long as the tower stands. In my mind, moreover, Pope, or any other person with an available claim, is right in adhering to the spot, dead or alive; for I never saw a chamber that I should like better to inhabit,—so comfortably small, in such a safe and inaccessible seclusion, and with a varied234 landscape from each window. One of them looks upon the church, close at hand, and down into the green churchyard, extending almost to the foot of the tower; the others have views wide and far, over a gently undulating tract3 of country. If desirous of a loftier elevation, about a dozen more steps of the turret-stair will bring the occupant to the summit of the tower,—where Pope used to come, no doubt, in the summer evenings, and peep—poor little shrimp235 that he was!— through the embrasures of the battlement.
From Stanton Harcourt we drove—I forget how far—to a point where a boat was waiting for us upon the Thames, or some other stream; for I am ashamed to confess my ignorance of the precise geographical236 whereabout. We were, at any rate, some miles above Oxford, and, I should imagine, pretty near one of the sources of England's mighty river. It was little more than wide enough for the boat, with extended oars237, to pass, shallow, too, and bordered with bulrushes and water-weeds, which, in some places, quite overgrew the surface of the river from bank to bank. The shores were flat and meadow-like, and sometimes, the boatman told us, are overflowed238 by the rise of the stream. The water looked clean and pure, but not particularly transparent239, though enough so to show us that the bottom is very much weedgrown; and I was told that the weed is an American production, brought to England with importations of timber, and now threatening to choke up the Thames and other English rivers. I wonder it does not try its obstructive powers upon the Merrimack, the Connecticut, or the Hudson,—not to speak of the St. Lawrence or the Mississippi!
It was an open boat, with cushioned seats astern, comfortably accommodating our party; the day continued sunny and warm, and perfectly240 still; the boatman, well trained to his business, managed the oars skilfully and vigorously; and we went down the stream quite as swiftly as it was desirable to go, the scene being so pleasant, and the passing hours so thoroughly241 agreeable. The river grew a little wider and deeper, perhaps, as we glided242 on, but was still an inconsiderable stream: for it had a good deal more than a hundred miles to meander243 through before it should bear fleets on its bosom244, and reflect palaces and towers and Parliament houses and dingy245 and sordid246 piles of various structure, as it rolled two and fro with the tide, dividing London asunder247. Not, in truth, that I ever saw any edifice whatever reflected in its turbid248 breast, when the sylvan stream, as we beheld249 it now, is swollen into the Thames at London.
Once, on our voyage, we had to land, while the boatman and some other persons drew our skiff round some rapids, which we could not otherwise have passed; another time, the boat went through a lock. We, meanwhile, stepped ashore250 to examine the ruins of the old nunnery of Godstowe, where Fair Rosamond secluded251 herself, after being separated from her royal lover. There is a long line of ruinous wall, and a shattered tower at one of the angles; the whole much ivy252-grown,—brimming over, indeed, with clustering ivy, which is rooted inside of the walls. The nunnery is now, I believe, held in lease by the city of Oxford, which has converted its precincts into a barn-yard. The gate was under lock and key, so that we could merely look at the outside, and soon resumed our places in the boat.
At three o'clock or thereabouts (or sooner or later,—for I took little heed253 of time, and only wished that these delightful wanderings might last forever) we reached Folly254 Bridge, at Oxford. Here we took possession of a spacious barge255, with a house in it, and a comfortable dining-room or drawing-room within the house, and a level roof, on which we could sit at ease, or dance if so inclined. These barges256 are common at Oxford,—some very splendid ones being owned by the students of the different colleges, or by clubs. They are drawn by horses, like canal-boats; and a horse being attached to our own barge, he trotted257 off at a reasonable pace, and we slipped through the water behind him, with a gentle and pleasant motion, which, save for the constant vicissitude258 of cultivated scenery, was like no motion at all. It was life without the trouble of living; nothing was ever more quietly agreeable. In this happy state of mind and body we gazed at Christ Church meadows, as we passed, and at the receding259 spires and towers of Oxford, and on a good deal of pleasant variety along the banks: young men rowing or fishing; troops of naked boys bathing, as if this were Arcadia, in the simplicity260 of the Golden Age; country-houses, cottages, water-side inns, all with something fresh about them, as not being sprinkled with the dust of the highway. We were a large party now; for a number of additional guests had joined us at Folly Bridge, and we comprised poets, novelists, scholars, sculptors261, painters, architects, men and women of renown262, dear friends, genial263, outspoken264, open-hearted Englishmen,—all voyaging onward265 together, like the wise ones of Gotham in a bowl. I remember not a single annoyance266, except, indeed, that a swarm267 of wasps268 came aboard of us and alighted on the head of one of our young gentlemen, attracted by the scent269 of the pomatum which he had been rubbing into his hair. He was the only victim, and his small trouble the one little flaw in our day's felicity, to put us in mind that we were mortal.
Meanwhile a table had been laid in the interior of our barge, and spread with cold ham, cold fowl, cold pigeon-pie, cold beef, and other substantial cheer, such as the English love, and Yankees too,—besides tarts270, and cakes, and pears, and plums,—not forgetting, of course, a goodly provision of port, sherry, and champagne, and bitter ale, which is like mother's milk to an Englishman, and soon grows equally acceptable to his American cousin. By the time these matters had been properly attended to, we had arrived at that part of the Thames which passes by Nuneham Courtney, a fine estate belonging to the Harcourts, and the present residence of the family. Here we landed, and, climbing a steep slope from the river-side, paused a moment or two to look at an architectural object, called the Carfax, the purport of which I do not well understand. Thence we proceeded onward, through the loveliest park and woodland scenery I ever saw, and under as beautiful a declining sunshine as heaven ever shed over earth, to the stately mansion-house.
As we here cross a private threshold, it is not allowable to pursue my feeble narrative271 of this delightful day with the same freedom as heretofore; so, perhaps, I may as well bring it to a close. I may mention, however, that I saw the library, a fine, large apartment, hung round with portraits of eminent272 literary men, principally of the last century, most of whom were familiar guests of the Harcourts. The house itself is about eighty years old, and is built in the classic style, as if the family had been anxious to diverge273 as far as possible from the Gothic picturesqueness274 of their old abode at Stanton Harcourt. The grounds were laid out in part by Capability Brown, and seemed to me even more beautiful than those of Blenheim. Mason the poet, a friend of the house, gave the design of a portion of the garden. Of the whole place I will not be niggardly275 of my rude Transatlantic praise, but be bold to say that it appeared to me as perfect as anything earthly can he,—utterly and entirely276 finished, as if the years and generations had done all that the hearts and minds of the successive owners could contrive277 for a spot they dearly loved. Such homes as Nuneham Courtney are among the splendid results of long hereditary278 possession; and we Republicans, whose households melt away like new-fallen snow in a spring morning, must content ourselves with our many counterbalancing advantages, for this one, so apparently279 desirable to the far-projecting selfishness of our nature, we are certain never to attain223.
It must not be supposed, nevertheless, that Nuneham Courtney is one of the great show-places of England. It is merely a fair specimen of the better class of country-seats, and has a hundred rivals, and many superiors, in the features of beauty, and expansive, manifold, redundant280 comfort, which most impressed me. A moderate man might be content with such a home,—that is all.
And now I take leave of Oxford without even an attempt to describe it,— there being no literary faculty281, attainable or conceivable by me, which can avail to put it adequately, or even tolerably, upon paper. It must remain its own sole expression; and those whose sad fortune it may be never to behold65 it have no better resource than to dream about gray, weather-stained, ivy-grown edifices282, wrought with quaint138 Gothic ornament91, and standing around grassy283 quadrangles, where cloistered284 walks have echoed to the quiet footsteps of twenty generations,—lawns and gardens of luxurious285 repose286, shadowed with canopies287 of foliage, and lit up with sunny glimpses through archways of great boughs,—spires, towers, and turrets288, each with its history and legend,—dimly magnificent chapels, with painted windows of rare beauty and brilliantly diversified289 hues290, creating an atmosphere of richest gloom,—vast college-halls, high-windowed, oaken-panelled, and hung round with portraits of the men, in every age, whom the University has nurtured291 to be illustrious,—long vistas of alcoved libraries, where the wisdom and learned folly of all time is shelved,—kitchens (we throw in this feature by way of ballast, and because it would not be English Oxford without its beef and beer), with huge fireplaces, capable of roasting a hundred joints292 at once,—and cavernous cellars, where rows of piled-up hogsheads seethe and fume293 with that mighty malt-liquor which is the true milk of Alma Mater; make all these things vivid in your dream, and you will never know nor believe how inadequate294 is the result to represent even the merest outside of Oxford.
We feel a genuine reluctance295 to conclude this article without making our grateful acknowledgments, by name, to a gentleman whose overflowing296 kindness was the main condition of all our sight-seeings and enjoyments297. Delightful as will always be our recollection of Oxford and its neighborhood, we partly suspect that it owes much of its happy coloring to the genial medium through which the objects were presented to us,—to the kindly magic of a hospitality unsurpassed, within our experience, in the quality of making the guest contented298 with his host, with himself, and everything about him. He has inseparably mingled299 his image with our remembrance of the Spires of Oxford.
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1
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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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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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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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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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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postures
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| 姿势( posture的名词复数 )； 看法； 态度； 立场 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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ranger
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| n.国家公园管理员，护林员；骑兵巡逻队员 | |
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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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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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51
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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gushes
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| n.涌出，迸发( gush的名词复数 )v.喷，涌( gush的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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55
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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62
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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63
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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64
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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65
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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66
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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67
imbuing
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的现在分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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68
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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69
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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70
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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71
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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72
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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73
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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74
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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76
canes
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| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
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77
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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78
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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79
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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80
equitable
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| adj.公平的；公正的 | |
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81
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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82
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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83
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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84
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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85
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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86
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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87
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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89
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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90
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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91
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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92
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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93
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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94
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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95
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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96
hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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97
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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98
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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99
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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100
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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101
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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102
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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103
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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104
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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105
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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106
reining
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的现在分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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107
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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108
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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109
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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110
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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111
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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112
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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113
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
consummated
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| v.使结束( consummate的过去式和过去分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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115
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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116
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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117
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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118
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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119
circumlocution
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| n. 绕圈子的话，迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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120
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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121
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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122
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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123
concoction
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| n.调配(物)；谎言 | |
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124
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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125
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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126
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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127
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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128
eradicate
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| v.根除，消灭，杜绝 | |
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129
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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130
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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131
acorns
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| n.橡子，栎实( acorn的名词复数 ) | |
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132
bate
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| v.压制；减弱；n.（制革用的）软化剂 | |
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133
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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134
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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135
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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136
collation
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| n.便餐；整理 | |
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137
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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138
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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139
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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140
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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141
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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142
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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143
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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144
hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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145
tipple
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| n.常喝的酒；v.不断喝，饮烈酒 | |
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146
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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147
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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148
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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149
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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150
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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151
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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152
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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153
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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154
mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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155
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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156
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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157
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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158
maligned
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| vt.污蔑，诽谤（malign的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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159
asperities
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| n.粗暴( asperity的名词复数 )；（表面的）粗糙；（环境的）艰苦；严寒的天气 | |
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160
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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161
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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163
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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164
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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165
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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166
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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167
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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168
eulogies
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| n.颂词，颂文( eulogy的名词复数 ) | |
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169
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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170
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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171
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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172
knightly
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| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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173
laudatory
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| adj.赞扬的 | |
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174
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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175
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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176
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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177
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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178
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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179
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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180
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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181
repels
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| v.击退( repel的第三人称单数 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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182
insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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183
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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184
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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185
picturesquely
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186
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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187
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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188
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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189
apertures
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| n.孔( aperture的名词复数 )；隙缝；（照相机的）光圈；孔径 | |
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190
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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191
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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192
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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193
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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194
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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195
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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196
pertinacious
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| adj.顽固的 | |
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197
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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198
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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199
seethe
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| vi.拥挤，云集；发怒，激动，骚动 | |
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200
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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201
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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202
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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203
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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204
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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205
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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206
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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207
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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208
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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209
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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210
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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211
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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212
droops
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的名词复数 ) | |
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213
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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214
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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215
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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216
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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217
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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218
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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219
desecrate
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| v.供俗用，亵渎，污辱 | |
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220
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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221
patrimonial
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| adj.祖传的 | |
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222
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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223
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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224
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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225
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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226
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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227
renovate
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| vt.更新，革新，刷新 | |
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228
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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229
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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230
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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231
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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232
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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233
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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234
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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235
shrimp
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| n.虾，小虾；矮小的人 | |
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236
geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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237
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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238
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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239
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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240
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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241
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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242
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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243
meander
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| n.河流的曲折，漫步，迂回旅行；v.缓慢而弯曲地流动，漫谈 | |
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244
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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245
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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246
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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247
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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248
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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249
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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250
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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251
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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252
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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253
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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254
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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255
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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256
barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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257
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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258
vicissitude
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| n.变化，变迁，荣枯，盛衰 | |
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259
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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260
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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261
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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262
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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263
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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264
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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265
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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266
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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267
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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268
wasps
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| 黄蜂( wasp的名词复数 )； 胡蜂； 易动怒的人； 刻毒的人 | |
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269
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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270
tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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271
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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272
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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273
diverge
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| v.分叉，分歧，离题，使...岔开，使转向 | |
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274
picturesqueness
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275
niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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276
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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277
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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278
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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279
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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280
redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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281
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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282
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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283
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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284
cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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285
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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286
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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287
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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288
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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289
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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290
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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291
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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292
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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293
fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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294
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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295
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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296
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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297
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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298
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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299
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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