Our first object, of course, was to see the Abbey, which stands just on the outskirts6 of the village, and is attainable7 only by applying at a neighboring house, the inhabitant of which probably supports himself, and most comfortably, too, as a showman of the ruin. He unlocked the wooden gate, and admitted us into what is left of the Abbey, comprising only the ruins of the church, although the refectory, the dormitories, and the other parts of the establishment, formerly8 covered the space now occupied by a dozen village houses. Melrose Abbey is a very satisfactory ruin, all carpeted along its nave9 and transepts with green grass; and there are some well-grown trees within the walls. We saw the window, now empty, through which the tints10 of the painted glass fell on the tombstone of Michael Scott, and the tombstone itself, broken in three pieces, but with a cross engraven along its whole length. It must have been the monument of an old monk12 or abbot, rather than a wizard. There, too, is still the "marble stone" on which the monk and warrior13 sat them down, and which is supposed to mark the resting-place of Alexander of Scotland. There are remains14, both without and within the Abbey, of most curious and wonderfully minute old sculpture,—foliage, in places where it is almost impossible to see them, and where the sculptor15 could not have supposed that they would be seen, but which yet are finished faithfully, to the very veins16 of each leaf, in stone; and there is a continual variety of this accurate toil17. On the exterior18 of the edifice19 there is equal minuteness of finish, and a great many niches20 for statues; all of which, I believe, are now gone, although there are carved faces at some points and angles. The graveyard21 around the Abbey is still the only one which the village has, and is crowded with gravestones, among which I read the inscription22 of one erected23 by Sir Walter Scott to the memory of Thomas Pardy, one of his servants. Some sable24 birds—either rooks or jackdaws— were flitting about the ruins, inside and out.
Mr. Bowman and I talked about revisiting Melrose by moonlight; but, luckily, there was to be no moon that evening. I do not myself think that daylight and sunshine make a ruin less effective than twilight25 or moonshine. In reference to Scott's description, I think he deplorably diminishes the impressiveness of the scene by saying that the alternate buttresses26, seen by moonlight, look as if made of ebon and ivory. It suggests a small and very pretty piece of cabinet-work; not these gray, rough walls, which Time has gnawed27 upon for a thousand years, without eating them away.
Leaving the Abbey, we took a path or a road which led us to the river Tweed, perhaps a quarter of a mile off; and we crossed it by a foot-bridge,—a pretty wide stream, a dimpling breadth of transparent28 water flowing between low banks, with a margin29 of pebbles30. We then returned to our inn, and had tea, and passed a quiet evening by the fireside. This is a good, unpretentious inn; and its visitors' book indicates that it affords general satisfaction to those who come here.
In the morning we breakfasted on broiled31 salmon32, taken, no doubt, in the neighboring Tweed. There was a very coarse-looking man at table with us, who informed us that he owned the best horse anywhere round the Eildon Hills, and could make the best cast for a salmon, and catch a bigger fish than anybody,—with other self-laudation of the same kind. The waiter afterwards told us that he was the son of an Admiral in the neighborhood; and soon, his horse being brought to the door, we saw him mount and ride away. He sat on horseback with ease and grace, though I rather suspect, early as it was, that he was already in his cups. The Scotch33 seem to me to get drunk at very unseasonable hours. I have seen more drunken people here than during all my residence in England, and, generally, early in the day. Their liquor, so far as I have observed, makes them good-natured and sociable34, imparting a perhaps needed geniality36 to their cold natures.
After breakfast we took a drosky, or whatever these fore-and-aft-seated vehicles are called, and set out for
DRYBURGH ABBEY,
three miles distant. It was a cold though rather bright morning, with a most shrewd and bitter wind, which blew directly in my face as I sat beside the driver. An English wind is bad enough, but methinks a Scotch one, is rather worse; at any rate, I was half frozen, and wished Dryburgh Abbey in Tophet, where it would have been warmer work to go and see it. Some of the border hills were striking, especially the Cowden Knowe, which ascends37 into a prominent and lofty peak. Such villages as we passed did not greatly differ from English villages. By and by we came to the banks of the Tweed, at a point where there is a ferry. A carriage was on the river-bank, the driver waiting beside it; for the people who came in it had already been ferried across to see the Abbey.
The ferryman here is a young girl; and, stepping into the boat, she shoved off, and so skilfully38 took advantage of the eddies39 of the stream, which is here deep and rapid, that we were soon on the other side. She was by no means an uncomely maiden40, with pleasant Scotch features, and a quiet intelligence of aspect, gleaming into a smile when spoken to; much tanned with all kinds of weather, and, though slender, yet so agile42 and muscular that it was no shame for a man to let himself be rowed by her.
From the ferry we had a walk of half a mile, more or less, to a cottage, where we found another young girl, whose business it is to show the Abbey. She was of another mould than the ferry-maiden,—a queer, shy, plaintive43 sort of a body,—and answered all our questions in a low, wailing44 tone. Passing through an apple-orchard, we were not long in reaching the Abbey, the ruins of which are much more extensive and more picturesque45 than those of Melrose, being overrun with bushes and shrubbery, and twined about with ivy46, and all such vegetation as belongs, naturally, to old walls. There are the remains of the refectory, and other domestic parts of the Abbey, as well as the church, and all in delightful47 state of decay,—not so far gone but that we had bits of its former grandeur48 in the columns and broken arches, and in some portions of the edifice that still retain a roof.
In the chapter-house we saw a marble statue of Newton, wofully maltreated by damps and weather; and though it had no sort of business there, it fitted into the ruins picturesquely49 enough. There is another statue, equally unauthorized; both having been placed here by a former Earl of Buchan, who seems to have been a little astray in his wits.
On one side of the church, within an arched recess50, are the monuments of Sir Walter Scott and his family,—three ponderous51 tombstones of Aberdeen granite52, polished, but already dimmed and dulled by the weather. The whole floor of the recess is covered by these monuments, that of Sir Walter being the middle one, with Lady (or, as the inscription calls her, Dame) Scott beyond him, next to the church wall, and some one of his sons or daughters on the hither side. The effect of his being buried here is to make the whole of Dryburgh Abbey his monument. There is another arched recess, twin to the Scott burial-place, and contiguous to it, in which are buried a Pringle family; it being their ancient place of sepulture. The spectator almost inevitably53 feels as if they were intruders, although their rights here are of far older date than those of Scott.
Dryburgh Abbey must be a most beautiful spot of a summer afternoon; and it was beautiful even on this not very genial35 morning, especially when the sun blinked out upon the ivy, and upon the shrubberied paths that wound about the ruins. I think I recollect54 the birds chirruping in this neighborhood of it. After viewing it sufficiently,—sufficiently for this one time,—we went back to the ferry, and, being set across by the same Undine, we drove back to Melrose. No longer riding against the wind, I found it not nearly so cold as before. I now noticed that the Eildon Hills, seen from this direction, rise from one base into three distinct summits, ranged in a line. According to "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," they were cleft55 into this shape by the magic of Michael Scott. Reaching Melrose . . . . without alighting, we set off for
ABBOTSFORD,
three miles off. The neighborhood of Melrose, leading to Abbotsford, has many handsome residences of modern build and very recent date,—suburban villas56, each with its little lawn and garden ground, such as we see in the vicinity of Liverpool. I noticed, too, one castellated house, of no great size, but old, and looking as if its tower were built, not for show, but for actual defence in the old border warfare57.
We were not long in reaching Abbotsford. The house, which is more compact, and of considerably58 less extent than I anticipated, stands in full view from the road, and at only a short distance from it, lower down towards the river. Its aspect disappointed me; but so does everything. It is but a villa1, after all; no castle, nor even a large manor-house, and very unsatisfactory when you consider it in that light. Indeed, it impressed me, not as a real house, intended for the home of human beings,—a house to die in or to be born in,—but as a plaything,— something in the same category as Horace Walpole's Strawberry Hill. The present owner seems to have found it insufficient60 for the actual purposes of life; for he is adding a wing, which promises to be as extensive as the original structure.
We rang at the front door (the family being now absent), and were speedily admitted by a middle-aged61 or somewhat elderly man,—the butler, I suppose, or some upper servant,—who at once acceded62 to our request to be permitted to see the house. We stepped from the porch immediately into the entrance-hall; and having the great Hall of Battle Abbey in my memory, and the ideal of a baronial hall in my mind, I was quite taken aback at the smallness and narrowness and lowness of this; which, however, is a very fine one, on its own little scale. In truth, it is not much more than a vestibule. The ceiling is carved; and every inch of the walls is covered with claymores, targets, and other weapons and armor, or old-time curiosities, tastefully arranged, many of which, no doubt, have a history attached to them,—or had, in Sir Walter's own mind. Our attendant was a very intelligent person, and pointed59 out much that was interesting; but in such a multitudinous variety it was almost impossible to fix the eye upon any one thing. Probably the apartment looked smaller than it really was, on account of being so wainscoted and festooned with curiosities. I remember nothing particularly, unless it be the coal-grate in the fireplace, which was one formerly used by Archbishop Sharpe, the prelate whom Balfour of Burley murdered. Either in this room or the next one, there was a glass case containing the suit of clothes last worn by Scott,—a short green coat, somewhat worn, with silvered buttons, a pair of gray tartan trousers, and a white hat. It was in the hall that we saw these things; for there too, I recollect, were a good many walking-sticks that had been used by Scott, and the hatchet63 with which he was in the habit of lopping branches from his trees, as he walked among them.
From the hall we passed into the study;—a small room, lined with the books which Sir Walter, no doubt, was most frequently accustomed to refer to; and our guide pointed out some volumes of the Moniteur, which he used while writing the history of Napoleon. Probably these were the driest and dullest volumes in his whole library. About mid-height of the walls of the study there is a gallery, with a short flight of steps for the convenience of getting at the upper books. A study-table occupied the centre of the room, and at one end of the table stands an easy-chair, covered with morocco, and with ample space to fling one's self back. The servant told me that I might sit down in this chair, for that Sir Walter sat there while writing his romances, "and perhaps," quoth the man, smiling, "you may catch some inspiration." What a bitter word this would have been if he had known me to be a romance-writer! "No, I never shall be inspired to write romances!" I answered, as if such an idea had never occurred to me. I sat down, however. This study quite satisfied me, being planned on principles of common-sense, and made to work in, and without any fantastic adaptation of old forms to modern uses.
Next to the study is the library, an apartment of respectable size, and containing as many books as it can hold, all protected by wire-work. I did not observe what or whose works were here; but the attendant showed us one whole compartment64 full of volumes having reference to ghosts, witchcraft65, and the supernatural generally. It is remarkable66 that Scott should have felt interested in such subjects, being such a worldly and earthly man as he was; but then, indeed, almost all forms of popular superstition67 do clothe the ethereal with earthly attributes, and so make it grossly perceptible.
The library, like the study, suited me well,—merely the fashion of the apartment, I mean,—and I doubt not it contains as many curious volumes as are anywhere to be met with within a similar space. The drawing-room adjoins it; and here we saw a beautiful ebony cabinet, which was presented to Sir Walter by George IV.; and some pictures of much interest,—one of Scott himself at thirty-five, rather portly, with a heavy face, but shrewd eyes, which seem to observe you closely. There is a full-length of his eldest68 son, an officer of dragoons, leaning on his charger; and a portrait of Lady Scott,—a brunette, with black hair and eyes, very pretty, warm, vivacious69, and un-English in her aspect. I am not quite sure whether I saw all these pictures in the drawing-room, or some of them in the dining-room; but the one that struck me most—and very much indeed—was the head of Mary, Queen of Scots, literally70 the head cut off and lying on a dish. It is said to have been painted by an Italian or French artist, two days after her death. The hair curls or flows all about it; the face is of a death-like hue71, but has an expression of quiet, after much pain and trouble,—very beautiful, very sweet and sad; and it affected72 me strongly with the horror and strangeness of such a head being severed73 from its body. Methinks I should not like to have it always in the room with me. I thought of the lovely picture of Mary that I had seen at Edinburgh Castle, and reflected what a symbol it would be,—how expressive74 of a human being having her destiny in her own hands,—if that beautiful young Queen were painted as carrying this dish, containing her own woful head, and perhaps casting a curious and pitiful glance down upon it, as if it were not her own.
Also, in the drawing-room, there was a plaster cast of Sir Walter's face, taken after death; the only one in existence, as our guide assured us. It is not often that one sees a homelier set of features than this; no elevation75, no dignity, whether bestowed76 by nature or thrown over them by age or death; sunken cheeks, the bridge of the nose depressed77, and the end turned up; the mouth puckered78, and no chin whatever, or hardly any. The expression was not calm and happy; but rather as if he were in a perturbed79 slumber80, perhaps nothing short of nightmare. I wonder that the family allow this cast to be shown,—the last record that there is of Scott's personal reality, and conveying such a wretched and unworthy idea of it.
Adjoining the drawing-room is the dining-room, in one corner of which, between two windows, Scott died. It was now a quarter of a century since his death; but it seemed to me that we spoke41 with a sort of hush81 in our voices, as if he were still dying here, or had but just departed. I remember nothing else in this room. The next one is the armory82, which is the smallest of all that we had passed through; but its walls gleam with the steel blades of swords, and the barrels of pistols, matchlocks, firelocks, and all manner of deadly weapons, whether European or Oriental; for there are many trophies83 here of East Indian warfare. I saw Rob Roy's gun, rifled and of very large bore; and a beautiful pistol, formerly Claverhouse's; and the sword of Montrose, given him by King Charles, the silver hilt of which I grasped. There was also a superb claymore, in an elaborately wrought84 silver sheath, made for Sir Walter Scott, and presented to him by the Highland85 Society, for his services in marshalling the clans86 when George IV. came to Scotland. There were a thousand other things, which I knew must be most curious, yet did not ask nor care about them, because so many curiosities drive one crazy, and fret87 one's heart to death. On the whole, there is no simple and great impression left by Abbotsford; and I felt angry and dissatisfied with myself for not feeling something which I did not and could not feel. But it is just like going to a museum, if you look into particulars; and one learns from it, too, that Scott could not have been really a wise man, nor an earnest one, nor one that grasped the truth of life; he did but play, and the play grew very sad toward its close. In a certain way, however, I understand his romances the better for having seen his house; and his house the better for having read his romances. They throw light on one another.
We had now gone through all the show-rooms; and the next door admitted us again into the entrance-hall, where we recorded our names in the visitors' book. It contains more names of Americans, I should judge, from casting my eyes back over last year's record, than of all other people in the world, including Great Britain.
Bidding farewell to Abbotsford, I cannot but confess a sentiment of remorse88 for having visited the dwelling-place—as just before I visited the grave of the mighty89 minstrel and romancer with so cold a heart and in so critical a mood,—his dwelling-place and his grave whom I had so admired and loved, and who had done so much for my happiness when I was young. But I, and the world generally, now look at him from a different point of view; and, besides, these visits to the actual haunts of famous people, though long dead, have the effect of making us sensible, in some degree, of their human imperfections, as if we actually saw them alive. I felt this effect, to a certain extent, even with respect to Shakespeare, when I visited Stratford-on-Avon. As for Scott, I still cherish him in a warm place, and I do not know that I have any pleasanter anticipation90, as regards books, than that of reading all his novels over again after we get back to the Wayside.
[This Mr. Hawthorne did, aloud to his family, the year following his return to America.—ED.]
It was now one or two o'clock, and time for us to take the rail across the borders. Many a mile behind us, as we rushed onward91, we could see the threefold Eildon Hill, and probably every pant of the engine carried us over some spot of ground which Scott has made fertile with poetry. For Scotland—cold, cloudy, barren little bit of earth that it is—owes all the interest that the world feels in it to him. Few men have done so much for their country as he. However, having no guide-book, we were none the wiser for what we saw out of the window of the rail-carriage; but, now and then, a castle appeared, on a commanding height, visible for miles round, and seemingly in good repair,—now, in some low and sheltered spot, the gray walls of an abbey; now, on a little eminence92, the ruin of a border fortress93, and near it the modern residence of the laird, with its trim lawn and shrubbery. We were not long in coming to
BERWICK,
a town which seems to belong both to England and Scotland, or perhaps is a kingdom by itself, for it stands on both sides of the boundary river, the Tweed, where it empties into the German Ocean. From the railway bridge we had a good view over the town, which looks ancient, with red roofs on all the gabled houses; and it being a sunny afternoon, though bleak94 and chill, the sea-view was very fine. The Tweed is here broad, and looks deep, flowing far beneath the bridge, between high banks. This is all that I can say of Berwick (pronounced Berrick), for though we spent above an hour at the station waiting for the train, we were so long in getting our dinner, that we had not time for anything else. I remember, however, some gray walls, that looked like the last remains of an old castle, near the railway station. We next took the train for
NEWCASTLE,
the way to which, for a considerable distance, lies within sight of the sea; and in close vicinity to the shore we saw Holy Isle95, on which are the ruins of an abbey. Norham Castle must be somewhere in this neighborhood, on the English shore of the Tweed. It was pretty late in the afternoon—almost nightfall—when we reached Newcastle, over the roofs of which, as over those of Berwick, we had a view from the railway, and like Berwick, it was a congregation of mostly red roofs; but, unlike Berwick (the atmosphere over which was clear and transparent), there came a gush96 of smoke from every chimney, which made it the dimmest and smokiest place I ever saw. This is partly owing to the iron founderies and furnaces; but each domestic chimney, too, was smoking on its own account,—coal being so plentiful97 there, no doubt, that the fire is always kept freshly heaped with it, reason or none. Out of this smoke-cloud rose tall steeples; and it was discernible that the town stretched widely over an uneven98 surface, on the banks of the Tyne, which is navigable up hither ten miles from the sea for pretty large vessels99.
We established ourselves at the Station Hotel, and then walked out to see something of the town; but I remember only a few streets of duskiness and dinginess100, with a glimpse of the turrets101 of a castle to which we could not find our way. So, as it was getting twilightish and very cold, we went back to the hotel, which is a very good one, better than any one I have seen in the South of England, and almost or quite as good as those of Scotland. The coffee-room is a spacious102 and handsome apartment, adorned103 with a full-length portrait of Wellington, and other pictures, and in the whole establishment there was a well-ordered alacrity104 and liberal provision for the comfort of guests that one seldom sees in English inns. There are a good many American guests in Newcastle, and through all the North.
An old Newcastle gentleman and his friend came into the smoking-room, and drank three glasses of hot whiskey-toddy apiece, and were still going on to drink more when we left them. These respectable persons probably went away drunk that night, yet thought none the worse of themselves or of one another for it. It is like returning to times twenty years gone by for a New-Englander to witness such simplicity105 of manners.
The next morning, May 8th, I rose and breakfasted early, and took the rail soon after eight o'clock, leaving Mr. Bowman behind; for he had business in Newcastle, and would not follow till some hours afterwards. There is no use in trying to make a narrative106 of anything that one sees along an English railway. All I remember of this tract107 of country is that one of the stations at which we stopped for an instant is called "Washington," and this is, no doubt, the old family place, where the De Wessyngtons, afterwards the Washingtons, were first settled in England. Before reaching York, first one old lady and then another (Quaker) lady got into the carriage along with me; and they seemed to be going to York, on occasion of some fair or celebration. This was all the company I had, and their advent108 the only incident. It was about eleven o'clock when I beheld109 York Cathedral rising huge above the old city, which stands on the river Ouse, separated by it from the railway station, but communicating by a ferry (or two) and a bridge. I wandered forth110, and found my way over the latter into the ancient and irregular streets of
YORK,
crooked111, narrow, or of unequal width, puzzling, and many of them bearing the name of the particular gate in the old walls of the city to which they lead. There were no such fine, ancient, stately houses as some of those in Shrewsbury were, nor such an aspect of antiquity as in Chester; but still York is a quaint112 old place, and what looks most modern is probably only something old, hiding itself behind a new front, as elsewhere in England.
I found my way by a sort of instinct, as directly as possible, to
YORK MINSTER.
It stands in the midst of a small open space,—or a space that looks small in comparison with the vast bulk of the cathedral. I was not so much impressed by its exterior as I have usually been by Gothic buildings; because it is rectangular in its general outline and in its towers, and seems to lack the complexity113 and mysterious plan which perplexes and wonder-strikes me in most cathedrals. Doubtless, however, if I had known better how to admire it, I should have found it wholly admirable. At all events, it has a satisfactory hugeness. Seeking my way in, I at first intruded114 upon the Registry of Deeds, which occupies a building patched up against the mighty side of the cathedral, and hardly discernible, so small the one and so large the other. I finally hit upon the right door, and I felt no disappointment in my first glance around at the immensity of enclosed space;—I see now in my mind's eye a dim length of nave, a breadth in the transepts like a great plain, and such an airy height beneath the central tower that a worshipper could certainly get a good way towards heaven without rising above it. I only wish that the screen, or whatever they call it, between the choir115 and nave, could be thrown down, so as to give us leave to take in the whole vastitude at once. I never could understand why, after building a great church, they choose to sunder116 it in halves by this mid-partition. But let me be thankful for what I got, and especially for the height and massiveness of the clustered pillars that support the arches on which rests the central tower. I remember at Furness Abbey I saw two tall pillars supporting a broken arch, and thought it, the most majestic117 fragment of architecture that could possibly be. But these pillars have a nobler height, and these arches a greater sweep. What nonsense to try to write about a cathedral!
There is a great, cold bareness and bleakness118 about the interior; for there are very few monuments, and those seem chiefly to be of ecclesiastical people. I saw no armed knights119, asleep on the tops of their tombs; but there was a curious representation of a skeleton, at full length, under the table-slab of one of the monuments. The walls are of a grayish hue, not so agreeable as the rich dark tint11 of the inside of Westminster Abbey; but a great many of the windows are still filled with ancient painted glass, the very small squares and pieces of which are composed into splendid designs of saints and angels, and scenes from Scripture120.
There were a few watery121 blinks of sunshine out of doors, and whenever these came through the old painted windows, some of the more vivid colors were faintly thrown upon the pavement of the cathedral,—very faintly, it is true; for, in the first place, the sunshine was not brilliant; and painted glass, too, fades in the course of the ages, perhaps, like all man's other works. There were two or three windows of modern manufacture, and far more magnificent, as to brightness of color and material beauty, than the ancient ones; but yet they looked vulgar, glaring, and impertinent in comparison, because such revivals122 or imitations of a long-disused art cannot have the good faith and earnestness of the originals. Indeed, in the very coloring, I felt the same difference as between heart's blood and a scarlet123 dye. It is a pity, however, that the old windows cannot be washed, both inside and out, for now they have the dust of centuries upon them.
The screen or curtain between the nave and choir has eleven carved figures, at full length, which appeared to represent kings, some of them wearing crowns, and bearing sceptres or swords. They were in wood, and wrought by some Gothic hand. These carvings124, and the painted windows, and the few monuments, are all the details that the mind can catch hold of in the immensity of this cathedral; and I must say that it was a dreary125 place on that cold, cloudy day. I doubt whether a cathedral is a sort of edifice suited to the English climate. The first buildings of the kind were probably erected by people who had bright and constant sunshine, and who desired a shadowy awfulness—like that of a forest, with its arched wood-paths—into which to retire in their religious moments.
In America, on a hot summer's day, how delightful its cool and solemn depths would be! The painted windows, too, were evidently contrived126, in the first instance, by persons who saw how effective they would prove when a vivid sun shone through them. But in England, the interior of a cathedral, nine days out of ten, is a vast sullenness127, and as chill as death and the tomb. At any rate, it was so to-day, and so thought one of the old vergers, who kept walking as briskly as he could along the width of the transepts. There were several of these old men when I first came in, but they went off, all but this one, before I departed. None of them said a word to me, nor I to them; and admission to the Minster seems to be entirely128 free.
After emerging from this great gloom, I wandered to and fro about York, and contrived to go astray within no very wide space. If its history be authentic129, it is an exceedingly old city, having been founded about a thousand years before the Christian130 era. There used to be a palace of the Roman emperors here, and the Emperor Severus died here, as did some of his successors; and Constantine the Great was born here. I know not what, if any, relics131 of those earlier times there may be; but York is still partly surrounded with a wall, and has several gates, which the city authorities take pains to keep in repair. I grow weary in my endeavor to find my way back to the railway, and inquired it of one of the good people of York,—a respectable, courteous132, gentlemanly person,— and he told me to walk along the walls. Then he went on a considerable distance; but seemed to repent133 of not doing more for me; so he waited till I came up, and, walking along by my side, pointed out the castle, now the jail, and the place of execution, and directed me to the principal gateway134 of the city, and instructed me how to reach the ferry. The path along the wall leads, in one place, through a room over the arch of a gateway,—a low, thick-walled, stone apartment, where doubtless the gatekeeper used to lodge135, and to parley136 with those who desired entrance.
I found my way to the ferry over the Ouse, according to this kind Yorkist's instructions. The ferryman told me that the fee for crossing was a halfpenny, which seemed so ridiculously small that I offered him more; but this unparalleled Englishman declined taking anything beyond his rightful halfpenny. This seems so wonderful to me that I can hardly trust my own memory.
Reaching the station, I got some dinner, and at four o'clock, just as I was starting, came Mr. Bowman, my very agreeable and sensible travelling companion. Our journeying together was ended here; for he was to keep on to London, and I to return to Liverpool. So we parted, and I took the rail westward137 across England, through a very beautiful, and in some degree picturesque, tract of country, diversified138 with hills, through the valleys and vistas139 of which goes the railroad, with dells diverging140 from it on either hand, and streams and arched bridges, and old villages, and a hundred pleasant English sights. After passing Rochdale, however, the dreary monotony of Lancashire succeeded this variety. Between nine and ten o'clock I reached the Tithebarn station in Liverpool. Ever since until now, May 17th, I have employed my leisure moments in scribbling141 off the journal of my tour; but it has greatly lost by not having been written daily, as the scenes and occurrences were fresh. The most picturesque points can be seized in no other way, and the hues142 of the affair fade as quickly as those of a dying dolphin; or as, according to Audubon, the plumage of a dead bird.
One thing that struck me as much as anything else in the Highlands I had forgotten to put down. In our walk at Balloch, along the road within view of Loch Lomond and the neighboring hills, it was a brilliant sunshiny afternoon, and I never saw any atmosphere so beautiful as that among the mountains. It was a clear, transparent, ethereal blue, as distinct as a vapor143, and yet by no means vaporous, but a pure, crystalline medium. I have witnessed nothing like this among the Berkshire hills nor elsewhere.
York is full of old churches, some of them very antique in appearance, the stones weather-worn, their edges rounded by time, blackened, and with all the tokens of sturdy and age-long decay; and in some of them I noticed windows quite full of old painted glass, a dreary kind of minute patchwork144, all of one dark and dusty hue, when seen from the outside. Yet had I seen them from the interior of the church, there doubtless would have been rich and varied145 apparitions146 of saints, with their glories round their heads, and bright-winged angels, and perhaps even the Almighty147 Father himself, so far as conceivable and representable by human powers. It requires light from heaven to make them visible. If the church were merely illuminated148 from the inside,—that is, by what light a man can get from his own understanding,—the pictures would be invisible, or wear at best but a miserable149 aspect.
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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4
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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5
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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6
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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7
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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8
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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9
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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10
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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11
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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12
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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13
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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14
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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15
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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16
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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17
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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18
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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19
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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20
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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21
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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22
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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23
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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24
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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25
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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26
buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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27
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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28
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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29
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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30
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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31
broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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32
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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33
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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34
sociable
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|
| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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35
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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36
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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37
ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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38
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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39
eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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40
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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41
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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42
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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43
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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44
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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45
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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46
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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47
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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48
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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49
picturesquely
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50
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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51
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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52
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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53
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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54
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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55
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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56
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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57
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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58
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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59
pointed
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|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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60
insufficient
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|
| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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61
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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62
acceded
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|
| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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63
hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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64
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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65
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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66
remarkable
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|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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67
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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68
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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69
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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70
literally
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|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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71
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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72
affected
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|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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73
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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74
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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75
elevation
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|
| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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76
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
depressed
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|
| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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78
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
perturbed
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|
| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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81
hush
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|
| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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82
armory
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| n.纹章，兵工厂，军械库 | |
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83
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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84
wrought
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|
| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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85
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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86
clans
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| 宗族( clan的名词复数 )； 氏族； 庞大的家族； 宗派 | |
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87
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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88
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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89
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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90
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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91
onward
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|
| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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92
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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93
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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94
bleak
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|
| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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95
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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96
gush
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|
| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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97
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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98
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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99
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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100
dinginess
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| n.暗淡，肮脏 | |
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101
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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102
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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103
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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104
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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105
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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106
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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107
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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108
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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109
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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110
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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111
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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112
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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113
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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114
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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115
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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116
sunder
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| v.分开；隔离；n.分离，分开 | |
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117
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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118
bleakness
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| adj. 萧瑟的, 严寒的, 阴郁的 | |
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119
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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120
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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121
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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122
revivals
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| n.复活( revival的名词复数 )；再生；复兴；（老戏多年后）重新上演 | |
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123
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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124
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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125
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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126
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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127
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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128
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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129
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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130
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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131
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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132
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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133
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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134
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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135
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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136
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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137
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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138
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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139
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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140
diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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141
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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142
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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143
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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144
patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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145
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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146
apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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147
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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148
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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149
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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