The same day I took the rail from the Little Street station for
MANCHESTER,
to meet Bennoch, who had asked me thither6 to dine with him. I had never visited Manchester before, though now so long resident within twenty miles of it; neither is it particularly worth visiting, unless for the sake of its factories, which I did not go to see. It is a dingy7 and heavy town, with very much the aspect of Liverpool, being, like the latter, built almost entirely8 within the present century. I stopped at the Albion Hotel, and, as Bennoch was out, I walked forth9 to view the city, and made only such observations as are recorded above. Opposite the hotel stands the Infirmary,—a very large edifice10, which, when erected11, was on the outskirts13, or perhaps in the rural suburbs, of the town, but it is now almost in its centre. In the enclosed space before it stands the statue of Peel, and sits a statue of Dr. Dalton, the celebrated14 chemist, who was a native of Manchester.
Returning to the hotel, I sat down in the room where we were to dine, and in due time Bennoch made his appearance, with the same glow and friendly warmth in his face that I had left burning there when we parted in London. If this man has not a heart, then no man ever had. I like him inexpressibly for his heart and for his intellect, and for his flesh and blood; and if he has faults, I do not know them, nor care to know them, nor value him the less if I did know them. He went to his room to dress; and in the mean time a middle-aged15, dark man, of pleasant aspect, with black hair, black eyebrows16, and bright, dark eyes came in, limping a little, but not much. He seemed not quite a man of the world, a little shy in manner, yet he addressed me kindly17 and sociably18. I guessed him to be Mr. Charles Swain, the poet, whom Mr. Bennoch had invited to dinner. Soon came another guest whom Mr. Swain introduced to me as Mr. ———, editor of the Manchester Examiner. Then came Bennoch, who made us all regularly acquainted, or took for granted that we were so; and lastly appeared a Mr. W———, a merchant in Manchester, and a very intelligent man; and the party was then complete. Mr. Swain, the poet, is not a man of fluent conversation; he said, indeed, very little, but gave me the impression of amiability19 and simplicity20 of character, with much feeling.
Mr. W——— is a very sensible man. He has spent two or three years in America, and seems to have formed juster conclusions about us than most of his countrymen do. He is the only Englishman, I think, whom I have met, who fairly acknowledges that the English do cherish doubt, jealousy21, suspicion, in short, an unfriendly feeling, towards the Americans. It is wonderful how every American, whatever class of the English he mingles22 with, is conscious of this feeling, and how no Englishman, except this sole Mr. W———, will confess it. He expressed some very good ideas, too, about the English and American press, and the reasons why the Times may fairly be taken as the exponent23 of British feeling towards us, while the New York Herald24, immense as its circulation is, can be considered, in no similar degree or kind, the American exponent.
We sat late at table, and after the other guests had retired25, Bennoch and I had some very friendly talk, and he proposed that on my wife's return we should take up our residence in his house at Blackheath, while Mrs. Bennoch and himself were absent for two months on a trip to Germany. If his wife and mine ratify26 the idea, we will do so.
The next morning we went out to see the Exchange, and whatever was noticeable about the town. Time being brief, I did not visit the cathedral, which, I believe, is a thousand years old. There are many handsome shops in Manchester; and we went into one establishment, devoted27 to pictures, engravings, and decorative28 art generally, which is most perfect and extensive. The firm, if I remember, is that of the Messrs. Agnew, and, though originating here, they have now a house in London. Here I saw some interesting objects, purchased by them at the recent sale of the Rogers collection; among other things, a slight pencil and water-color sketch29 by Raphael. An unfinished affair, done in a moment, as this must have been, seems to bring us closer to the hand that did it than the most elaborately painted picture can. Were I to see the Transfiguration, Raphael would still be at the distance of centuries. Seeing this little sketch, I had him very near me. I know not why,— perhaps it might be fancied that he had only laid down the pencil for an instant, and would take it up again in a moment more. I likewise saw a copy of a handsome, illustrated30 edition of Childe Harold, presented by old John Murray to Mr. Rogers, with an inscription31 on the fly-leaf, purporting32 that it was a token of gratitude33 from the publisher, because, when everybody else thought him imprudent in giving four hundred guineas for the poem, Mr. Rogers told him it would turn out the best bargain he ever made.
There was a new picture by Millais, the distinguished34 Pre-Raphaelite artist, representing a melancholy35 parting between two lovers. The lady's face had a great deal of sad and ominous36 expression; but an old brick wall, overrun with foliage37, was so exquisitely38 and elaborately wrought39 that it was hardly possible to look at the personages of the picture. Every separate leaf of the climbing and clustering shrubbery was painfully made out; and the wall was reality itself, with the weather-stains, and the moss40, and the crumbling41 lime between the bricks. It is not well to be so perfect in the inanimate, unless the artist can likewise make man and woman as lifelike, and to as great a depth, too, as the Creator does.
Bennoch left town for some place in Yorkshire, and I for Liverpool. I asked him to come and dine with me at the Adelphi, meaning to ask two or three people to meet him; but he had other engagements, and could not spare a day at present, though he promises to come before long.
Dining at Mr. Rathbone's one evening last week (May 21st), it was mentioned that
BORROW,
author of the Bible in Spain, is supposed to be of gypsy descent by the mother's side. Hereupon Mr. Martineau mentioned that he had been a schoolfellow of Borrow, and though he had never heard of his gypsy blood, he thought it probable, from Borrow's traits of character. He said that, Borrow had once run away from school, and carried with him a party of other boys, meaning to lead a wandering life.
If an Englishman were individually acquainted with all our twenty-five millions of Americans, and liked every one of them, and believed that each man of those millions was a Christian42, honest, upright, and kind, he would doubt, despise, and hate them in the aggregate43, however he might love and honor the individuals.
Captain ——— and his wife Oakum; they spent all evening at Mrs. B———'s. The Captain is a Marblehead man by birth, not far from sixty years old; very talkative and anecdotic in regard to his adventures; funny, good-humored, and full of various nautical44 experience. Oakum (it is a nickname which he gives his wife) is an inconceivably tall woman,— taller than he,—six feet, at least, and with a well-proportioned largeness in all respects, but looks kind and good, gentle, smiling,—and almost any other woman might sit like a baby on her lap. She does not look at all awful and belligerent45, like the massive English women one often sees. You at once feel her to be a benevolent46 giantess, and apprehend47 no harm from her. She is a lady, and perfectly48 well mannered, but with a sort of naturalness and simplicity that becomes her; for any the slightest affectation would be so magnified in her vast personality that it would be absolutely the height of the ridiculous. This wedded49 pair have no children, and Oakum has so long accompanied her husband on his voyages that I suppose by this time she could command a ship as well as he. They sat till pretty late, diffusing50 cheerfulness all about them, and then, "Come, Oakum," cried the Captain, "we must hoist51 sail!" and up rose Oakum to the ceiling, and moved tower-like to the door, looking down with a benignant smile on the poor little pygmy women about her. "Six feet," did I say? Why, she must be seven, eight, nine; and, whatever be her size, she is as good as she is big.
June 11th.—Monday night (9th), just as I was retiring, I received a telegraphic message announcing my wife's arrival at
SOUTHAMPTON.
So, the next day, I arranged the consular53 business for an absence of ten days, and set forth with J——-, and reached Birmingham, between eight and nine, evening. We put up at the Queen's Hotel, a very large establishment, contiguous to the railway. Next morning we left Birmingham, and made our first stage to Leamington, where we had to wait nearly an hour, which we spent in wandering through some of the streets that had been familiar to us last year. Leamington is certainly a beautiful town, new, bright, clean, and as unlike as possible to the business towns of England. However, the sun was burning hot, and I could almost have fancied myself in America. From Leamington we took tickets for Oxford54, where we were obliged to make another stop of two hours; and these we employed to what advantage we could, driving up into town, and straying hither and thither, till J——-'s weariness weighed upon me, and I adjourned55 with him to a hotel. Oxford is an ugly old town, of crooked56 and irregular streets, gabled houses, mostly plastered of a buff or yellow hue57; some new fronts; and as for the buildings of the University, they seem to be scattered58 at random59, without any reference to one another. I passed through an old gateway60 of Christ Church, and looked at its enclosed square, and that is, in truth, pretty much all I then saw of the University of Oxford. From Christ Church we rambled61 along a street that led us to a bridge across the Isis; and we saw many row-boats lying in the river,—the lightest craft imaginable, unless it were an Indian canoe. The Isis is but a narrow stream, and with a sluggish63 current. I believe the students of Oxford are famous for their skill in rowing.
To me as well as to J——- the hot streets were terribly oppressive; so we went into the Roebuck Hotel, where we found a cool and pleasant coffee-room. The entrance to this hotel is through an arch, opening from High Street, and giving admission into a paved court, the buildings all around being part of the establishment,—old edifices64 with pointed65 gables and old-fashioned projecting windows, but all in fine repair, and wearing a most quiet, retired, and comfortable aspect. The court was set all round with flowers, growing in pots or large pedestalled vases; on one side was the coffee-room, and all the other public apartments, and the other side seemed to be taken up by the sleeping-chambers66 and parlors67 of the guests. This arrangement of an inn, I presume, is very ancient, and it resembles what I have seen in the hospitals, free schools, and other charitable establishments in the old English towns; and, indeed, all large houses were arranged on somewhat the same principle.
By and by two or three young men came in, in wide-awake hats, and loose, blouse-like, summerish garments; and from their talk I found them to be students of the University, although their topics of conversation were almost entirely horses and boats. One of them sat down to cold beef and a tankard of ale; the other two drank a tankard of ale together, and went away without paying for it,—rather to the waiter's discontent. Students are very much alike, all the world over, and, I suppose, in all time; but I doubt whether many of my fellows at college would have gone off without paying for their beer.
We reached Southampton between seven and eight o'clock. I cannot write to-day.
June 15th.—The first day after we reached Southampton was sunny and pleasant; but we made little use of the fine weather, except that S——- and I walked once along the High Street, and J——- and I took a little ramble62 about town in the afternoon. The next day there was a high and disagreeable wind, and I did not once stir out of the house. The third day, too, I kept entirely within doors, it being a storm of wind and rain. The Castle Hotel stands within fifty yards of the water-side; so that this gusty69 day showed itself to the utmost advantage,—the vessels70 pitching and tossing at their moorings, the waves breaking white out of a tumultuous gray surface, the opposite shore glooming mistily72 at the distance of a mile or two; and on the hither side boatmen and seafaring people scudding73 about the pier74 in waterproof75 clothes; and in the street, before the hotel door, a cabman or two, standing76 drearily77 beside his horse. But we were sunny within doors.
Yesterday it was breezy, sunny, shadowy, showery; and we ordered a cab to take us to Clifton Villa78, to call on Mrs. ———, a friend of B———'s, who called on us the day after our arrival. Just, as we were ready to start, Mrs. ——— again called, and accompanied us back to her house. It is in Shirley, about two miles from Southampton pier, and is a pleasant suburban79 villa, with a pretty ornamented80 lawn and shrubbery about it. Mrs. ——— is an instructress of young ladies; and at B———'s suggestion, she is willing to receive us for two or three weeks, during the vacation, until we are ready to go to London. She seems to be a pleasant and sensible woman, and to-morrow we shall decide whether to go there. There was nothing very remarkable81 in this drive; and, indeed, my stay hereabouts thus far has been very barren of sights and incidents externally interesting, though the inner life has been rich.
Southampton is a very pretty town, and has not the dinginess82 to which I have been accustomed in many English towns. The High Street reminds me very much of American streets in its general effect; the houses being mostly stuccoed white or light, and cheerful in aspect, though doubtless they are centuries old at heart. The old gateway, which I presume I have mentioned in describing my former visit to Southampton, stands across High Street, about in the centre of the town, and is almost the only token of antiquity83 that presents itself to the eye.
June 17th.—Yesterday morning, June 16th, S——-, Mrs. ———, and I took the rail for Salisbury, where we duly arrived without any accident or anything noticeable, except the usual verdure and richness of an English summer landscape. From the railway station we walked up into Salisbury, with the tall spire84 (four hundred feet high) of the cathedral before our eyes. Salisbury is an antique city, but with streets more regular than I have seen in most old towns, and the houses have a more picturesque85 aspect than those of Oxford, for instance, where almost all are mean-looking alike,—though I could hardly judge of Oxford on that hot, weary day. Through one or more of the streets there runs a swift, clear little stream, which, being close to the pavement, and bordered with stone, may be called, I suppose, a kennel86, though possessing the transparent87 purity of a rustic88 rivulet89. It is a brook90 in city garb91. We passed under the pointed arch of a gateway, which stands in one of the principal streets, and soon came in front of
THE CATHEDRAL.
I do not remember any cathedral with so fine a site as this, rising up out of the centre of a beautiful green, extensive enough to show its full proportions, relieved and insulated from all other patchwork92 and impertinence of rusty93 edifices. It is of gray stone, and looks as perfect as when just finished, and with the perfection, too, that could not have come in less than six centuries of venerableness, with a view to which these edifices seem to have been built. A new cathedral would lack the last touch to its beauty and grandeur94. It needs to be mellowed95 and ripened96, like some pictures; although I suppose this awfulness of antiquity was supplied, in the minds of the generation that built cathedrals, by the sanctity which they attributed to them. Salisbury Cathedral is far more beautiful than that of York, the exterior97 of which was really disagreeable to my eye; but this mighty98 spire and these multitudinous gray pinnacles99 and towers ascend100 towards heaven with a kind of natural beauty, not as if man had contrived101 them. They might be fancied to have grown up, just as the spires102 of a tuft of grass do, at the same time that they have a law of propriety103 and regularity104 among themselves. The tall spire is of such admirable proportion that it does not seem gigantic; and indeed the effect of the whole edifice is of beauty rather than weight and massiveness. Perhaps the bright, balmy sunshine in which we saw it contributed to give it a tender glory, and to soften105 a little its majesty106.
When we went in, we heard the organ, the forenoon service being near conclusion. If I had never seen the interior of York Cathedral, I should have been quite satisfied, no doubt, with the spaciousness107 of this nave109 and these side aisles110, and the height of their arches, and the girth of these pillars; but with that recollection in my mind they fell a little short of grandeur. The interior is seen to disadvantage, and in a way the builder never meant it to be seen; because there is little or no painted glass, nor any such mystery as it makes, but only a colorless, common daylight, revealing everything without remorse111. There is a general light hue, moreover, like that of whitewash112, over the whole of the roof and walls of the interior, pillars, monuments, and all; whereas, originally, every pillar was polished, and the ceiling was ornamented in brilliant colors, and the light came, many-hued, through the windows, on all this elaborate beauty, in lieu of which there is nothing now but space.
Between the pillars that separate the nave from the side aisles, there are ancient tombs, most of which have recumbent statues on them. One of these is Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, son of Fair Rosamond, in chain mail; and there are many other warriors113 and bishops116, and one cross-legged Crusader, and on one tombstone a recumbent skeleton, which I have likewise seen in two or three other cathedrals. The pavement of the aisles and nave is laid in great part with flat tombstones, the inscriptions117 on which are half obliterated118, and on the walls, especially in the transepts, there are tablets, among which I saw one to the poet Bowles, who was a canon of this cathedral. The ecclesiastical dignitaries bury themselves and monument themselves to the exclusion120 of almost everybody else, in these latter times; though still, as of old, the warrior114 has his place. A young officer, slain121 in the Indian wars, was memorialized by a tablet, and may be remembered by it, six hundred years hence, as we now remember the old Knights122 and Crusaders. It deserves to be mentioned that I saw one or two noses still unbroken among these recumbent figures. Most of the antique statues, on close examination, proved to be almost, entirely covered with names and initials, scratched over the once polished surface. The cathedral and its relics123 must have been far less carefully watched, at some former period, than now.
Between the nave and the choir124, as usual, there is a screen that half destroys the majesty of the building, by abridging125 the spectator of the long vista126 which he might otherwise have of the whole interior at a glance. We peeped through the barrier, and saw some elaborate monuments in the chancel beyond; but the doors of the screen are kept locked, so that the vergers may raise a revenue by showing strangers through the richest part of the cathedral. By and by one of these vergers came through the screen, with a gentleman and lady whom he was taking round, and we joined ourselves to the party. He showed us into the cloisters129, which had long been neglected and ruinous, until the time of Bishop115 Dennison, the last prelate, who has been but a few years dead. This Bishop has repaired and restored the cloisters in faithful adherence130 to the original plan; and they now form a most delightful131 walk about a pleasant and verdant132 enclosure, in the centre of which sleeps good Bishop Dennison, with a wife on either side of him, all three beneath broad flat stones. Most cloisters are darksome and grim; but these have a broad paved walk beneath the vista of arches, and are light, airy, and cheerful; and from one corner you can get the best possible view of the whole height and beautiful proportion of the cathedral spire. One side of this cloistered133 walk seems to be the length of the nave of the cathedral. There is a square of four such sides; and of places for meditation134, grave, yet not too sombre, it seemed to me one of the best. While we stayed there, a jackdaw was walking to and fro across the grassy135 enclosure, and haunting around the good Bishop's grave. He was clad in black, and looked like a feathered ecclesiastic119; but I know not whether it were Bishop Dennison's ghost, or that of some old monk136.
On one side of the cloisters, and contiguous to the main body of the cathedral, stands the chapter-house. Bishop Dennison had it much at heart to repair this part of the holy edifice; and, if I mistake not, did begin the work; for it had been long ruinous, and in Cromwell's time his dragoons stationed their horses there. Little progress, however, had been made in the repairs when the Bishop died; and it was decided137 to restore the building in his honor, and by way of monument to him. The repairs are now nearly completed; and the interior of this chapter-house gave me the first idea, anywise adequate, of the splendor138 of these Gothic church edifices. The roof is sustained by one great central pillar of polished marble,—small pillars clustered about a great central column, which rises to the ceiling, and there gushes139 out with various beauty, that overflows140 all the walls; as if the fluid idea had sprung out of that fountain, and grown solid in what we see. The pavement is elaborately ornamented; the ceiling is to be brilliantly gilded141 and painted, as it was of yore, and the tracery and sculptures around the walls are to be faithfully renewed from what remains142 of the original patterns.
After viewing the chapter-house, the verger—an elderly man of grave, benign52 manner, clad in black and talking of the cathedral and the monuments as if he loved them—led us again into the nave of the cathedral, and thence within the screen of the choir. The screen is as poor as possible,—mere barren wood-work, without the least attempt at beauty. In the chancel there are some meagre patches of old glass, and some of modern date, not very well worth looking at. We saw several interesting monuments in this part of the cathedral,—one belonging to the ducal family of Somerset, and erected in the reign143 of James I.; it is of marble, and extremely splendid and elaborate, with kneeling figures and all manner of magnificence,—more than I have seen in any monument except that of Mary of Scotland in Westminster Abbey. The more ancient tombs are also very numerous, and among them that of the Bishop who founded the cathedral. Within the screen, against the wall, is erected a monument, by Chantrey, to the Earl of Malmesbury; a full-length statue of the Earl in a half-recumbent position, holding an open volume and looking upward,—a noble work,—a calm, wise, thoughtful, firm, and not unbenignant face. Beholding144 its expression, it really was impossible not to have faith in the high character of the individual thus represented; and I have seldom felt this effect from any monumental bust145 or statue, though I presume it is always aimed at.
I am weary of trying to describe cathedrals. It is utterly146 useless; there is no possibility of giving the general effect, or any shadow of it, and it is miserable147 to put down a few items of tombstones, and a bit of glass from a painted window, as if the gloom and glory of the edifice were thus to be reproduced. Cathedrals are almost the only things (if even those) that have quite filled out my ideal here in this old world; and cathedrals often make me miserable from my inadequacy148 to take them wholly in; and, above all, I despise myself when I sit down to describe them.
We now walked around the Close, which is surrounded by some of the quaintest149 and comfortablest ecclesiastical residences that can be imagined. These are the dwelling150-houses of the Dean and the canons, and whatever other high officers compose the Bishop's staff; and there was one large brick mansion151, old, but not so ancient as the rest, which we took to be the Bishop's palace. I never beheld152 anything—I must say again so cosey, so indicative of domestic comfort for whole centuries together,—houses so fit to live in or to die in, and where it would be so pleasant to lead a young wife beneath the antique portal, and dwell with her till husband and wife were patriarchal,—as these delectable153 old houses. They belong naturally to the cathedral, and have a necessary relation to it, and its sanctity is somehow thrown over them all, so that they do not quite belong to this world, though they look full to overflowing154 of whatever earthly things are good for man. These are places, however, in which mankind makes no progress; the rushing tumult71 of human life here subsides155 into a deep, quiet pool, with perhaps a gentle circular eddy156, but no onward157 movement. The same identical thought, I suppose, goes round in a slow whirl from one generation to another, as I have seen a withered158 leaf do in the vortex of a brook. In the front of the cathedral there is a most stately and beautiful tree, which flings its verdure upward to a very lofty height; but far above it rises the tall spire, dwarfing159 the great tree by comparison.
When the cathedral had sufficiently160 oppressed us with its beauty, we returned to sublunary matters, and went wandering about Salisbury in search of a luncheon161, which we finally took in a confectioner's shop. Then we inquired hither and thither, at various livery-stables, for a conveyance162 to Stonehenge, and at last took a fly from the Lamb Hotel. The drive was over a turnpike for the first seven miles, over a bare, ridgy163 country, showing little to interest us. We passed a party of seven or eight men, in a coarse uniform dress, resembling that worn by convicts and apparently164 under the guardianship165 of a stout166, authoritative167, yet rather kindly-looking man with a cane168. Our driver said that they were lunatics from a neighboring asylum169, out for a walk.
Seven miles from Salisbury, we turned aside from the turnpike, and drove two miles across Salisbury Plain, which is an apparently boundless170 extent of unenclosed land, treeless and houseless. It is not exactly a plain, but a green sea of long and gentle swells171 and subsidences, affording views of miles upon miles to a very far horizon. We passed large flocks of sheep, with the shepherds watching them; but the dogs seemed to take most of the care of the flocks upon their own shoulders, and would scamper172 to turn the sheep when they inclined to stray whither they should not; and then arose a thousand-fold bleating173, not unpleasant to the ear; for it did not apparently indicate any fear or discomfort174 on the part of the flock. The sheep and lambs are all black-faced, and have a very funny expression. As we drove over the plain (my seat was beside the driver), I saw at a distance a cluster of large gray stones, mostly standing upright, and some of them slightly inclined towards each other, —very irregular, and so far off forming no very picturesque or noteworthy spectacle. Of course I knew at once that this was
STONEHENGE,
and also knew that the reality was going to dwindle175 wofully within my ideal, as almost everything else does. When we reached the spot, we found a picnic-party just finishing their dinner, on one of the overthrown177 stones of the druidical temple; and within the sacred circle an artist was painting a wretched daub of the scene, and an old shepherd —the very Shepherd of Salisbury Plain sat erect12 in the centre of the ruin.
There never was a ruder thing than Stonehenge made by mortal hands. It is so very rude that it seems as if Nature and man had worked upon it with one consent, and so it is all the stranger and more impressive from its rudeness. The spectator wonders to see art and contrivance, and a regular and even somewhat intricate plan, beneath all the uncouth178 simplicity of this arrangement of rough stones; and certainly, whatever was the intellectual and scientific advancement179 of the people who built Stonehenge, no succeeding architects will ever have a right to triumph over them; for nobody's work in after times is likely to endure till it becomes a mystery as to who built it, and how, and for what purpose. Apart from the moral considerations suggested by it, Stonehenge is not very well worth seeing. Materially, it is one of the poorest of spectacles, and when complete, it must have been even less picturesque than now,—a few huge, rough stones, very imperfectly squared, standing on end, and each group of two supporting a third large stone on their tops; other stones of the same pattern overthrown and tumbled one upon another; and the whole comprised within a circuit of about a hundred feet diameter; the short, sheep-cropped grass of Salisbury Plain growing among all these uncouth bowlders. I am not sure that a misty180, lowering day would not have better suited Stonehenge, as the dreary181 midpoint of the great, desolate182, trackless plain; not literally183 trackless, however, for the London and Exeter Road passes within fifty yards of the ruins, and another road intersects it.
After we had been there about an hour, there came a horseman within the Druid's circle,—evidently a clerical personage by his white neckcloth, though his loose gray riding pantaloons were not quite in keeping. He looked at us rather earnestly, and at last addressed Mrs. ———, and announced himself as Mr. Hinchman,—a clergyman whom she had been trying to find in Salisbury, in order to avail herself of him as a cicerone; and he had now ridden hither to meet us. He told us that the artist whom we found here could give us more information than anybody about Stonehenge; for it seems he has spent a great many years here, painting and selling his poor sketches184 to visitors, and also selling a book which his father wrote about the remains. This man showed, indeed, a pretty accurate, acquaintance with these old stones, and pointed out, what is thought to be the altar-stone, and told us of some relation between this stone and two other stones, and the rising of the sun at midsummer, which might indicate that Stonehenge was a temple of solar worship. He pointed out, too, to how little depth the stones were planted in the earth, insomuch that I have no doubt the American frosts would overthrow176 Stonehenge in a single winter; and it is wonderful that it should have stood so long, even in England. I have forgotten what else he said; but I bought one of his books, and find it a very unsatisfactory performance, being chiefly taken up with an attempt to prove these remains to be an antediluvian185 work, constructed, I think the author says, under the superintendence of Father Adam himself! Before our departure we were requested to write our names in the album which the artist keeps for the purpose; and he pointed out Ex-President Fillmore's autograph, and those of one or two other Americans who have been here within a short time. It is a very curious life that this artist leads, in this great solitude186, and haunting Stonehenge like the ghost of a Druid; but he is a brisk little man, and very communicative on his one subject.
Mr. Hinchman rode with us over the plain, and pointed out Salisbury spire, visible close to Stonehenge. Under his guidance we returned by a different road from that which brought us thither,—and a much more delightful one. I think I never saw such continued sylvan187 beauty as this road showed us, passing through a good deal of woodland scenery,—fine old trees, standing each within its own space, and thus having full liberty to outspread itself, and wax strong and broad for ages, instead of being crowded, and thus stifled188 and emaciated189, as human beings are here, and forest-trees are in America. Hedges, too, and the rich, rich verdure of England; and villages full of picturesque old houses, thatched, and ivied, or perhaps overrun with roses,—and a stately mansion in the Elizabethan style; and a quiet stream, gliding191 onward without a ripple192 from its own motion, but rippled193 by a large fish darting194 across it; and over all this scene a gentle, friendly sunshine, not ardent195 enough to crisp a single leaf or blade of grass. Nor must the village church be forgotten, with its square, battlemented tower, dating back to the epoch196 of the Normans. We called at a house where one of Mrs. ———'s pupils was residing with her aunt,—a thatched house of two stories high, built in what was originally a sand-pit, but which, in the course of a good many years, has been transformed into the most delightful and homelike little nook almost that can be found in England. A thatched cottage suggests a very rude dwelling indeed; but this had a pleasant parlor68 and drawing-room, and chambers with lattice-windows, opening close beneath the thatched roof; and the thatch190 itself gives an air to the place as if it were a bird's nest, or some such simple and natural habitation. The occupants are an elderly clergyman, retired from professional duty, and his sister; and having nothing else to do, and sufficient means, they employ themselves in beautifying this sweet little retreat—planting new shrubbery, laying out new walks around it, and helping197 Nature to add continually another charm; and Nature is certainly a more genial198 playfellow in England than in my own country. She is always ready to lend her aid to any beautifying purpose.
Leaving these good people, who were very hospitable199, giving tea and offering wine, we reached Salisbury in time to take the train for Southampton.
June 18th.—Yesterday we left the Castle Hotel, after paying a bill of twenty pounds for a little more than a week's board. In America we could not very well have lived so simply, but we might have lived luxuriously200 for half the money. This Castle Hotel was once an old Roman castle, the landlord says, and the circular sweep of the tower is still seen towards the street, although, being painted white, and built up with modern additions, it would not be taken for an ancient structure. There is a dungeon201 beneath it, in which the landlord keeps his wine.
J——- and I, quitting the hotel, walked towards Shinley along the water-side, leaving the rest of the family to follow in a fly. There are many traces, along the shore, of the fortifications by which Southampton was formerly202 defended towards the water, and very probably their foundations may be as ancient as Roman times. Our hotel was no doubt connected with this chain of defences, which seems to have consisted of a succession of round towers, with a wall extending from one to another. We saw two or three of these towers still standing, and likely to stand, though ivy-grown and ruinous at the summit, and intermixed and even amalgamated203 with pot-houses and mean dwellings204; and often, through an antique arch, there was a narrow doorway205, giving access to the house of some sailor or laborer206 or artisan, and his wife gossiping at it with her neighbor, or his children playing about it.
After getting beyond the precincts of Southampton our walk was not very interesting, except to J——-, who kept running down to the verge127 of the water, looking for shells and sea-insects.
June 29th.—Yesterday, 28th, I left Liverpool from the Lime Street station; an exceedingly hot day for England, insomuch that the rail carriages were really uncomfortable. I have now passed over the London and Northwestern Railway so often that the northern part of it is very wearisome, especially as it has few features of interest even to a new observer. At Stafford—no, at Wolverhampton—we diverged207 to a track which I have passed over only once before. We stopped an hour and a quarter at Wolverhampton, and I walked up into the town, which is large and old,—old, at least, in its plan, or lack of plan,—the streets being irregular, and straggling over an uneven208 surface. Like many of the English towns, it reminds me of Boston, though dingier209. The sun was so hot that I actually sought the shady sides of the streets; and this, of itself, is one long step towards establishing a resemblance between an English town and an American one.
English railway carriages seem to me more tiresome210 than any other; and I suppose it is owing to the greater motion, arising from their more elastic211 springs. A slow train, too, like that which I was now in, is more tiresome than a quick one, at least to the spirits, whatever it may be to the body. We loitered along through afternoon and evening, stopping at every little station, and nowhere getting to the top of our speed, till at last, in the late dusk, we reached
GLOUCESTER,
and I put up at the Wellington Hotel, which is but a little way from the station. I took tea and a slice or two of ham in the coffee-room, and had a little talk with two people there; one of whom, on learning that I was an American, said, "But I suppose you have now been in England some time?" He meant, finding me not absolutely a savage212, that I must have been caught a good while ago. . . .
The next morning I went into the city, the hotel being on its outskirts, and rambled along in search of the cathedral. Some church-bells were chiming and clashing for a wedding or other festal occasion, and I followed the sound, supposing that it might proceed from the cathedral, but this was not the case. It was not till I had got to a bridge over the Severn, quite out of the town, that I saw again its tower, and knew how to shape my course towards it.
I did not see much that was strange or interesting in Gloucester. It is old, with a good many of those antique Elizabethan houses with two or three peaked gables on a line together; several old churches, which always cluster about a cathedral, like chickens round a hen; a hospital for decayed tradesmen; another for bluecoat boys; a great many butcher's shops, scattered in all parts of the town, open in front, with a counter or dresser on which to display the meat, just in the old fashion of Shakespeare's house. It is a large town, and has a good deal of liveliness and bustle213, in a provincial214 way. In short, judging by the sheep, cattle, and horses, and the people of agricultural aspect that I saw about the streets, I should think it must have been market-day. I looked here and there for the old Bell Inn, because, unless I misremember, Fielding brings Tom Jones to this inn, while he and Partridge were travelling together. It is still extant; for, on my arrival the night before, a runner from it had asked me to go thither; but I forgot its celebrity215 at the moment. I saw nothing of it in my rambles216 about Gloucester, but at last I found
THE CATHEDRAL,
though I found no point from which a good view of the exterior can be seen.
It has a very beautiful and rich outside, however, and a lofty tower, very large and ponderous217, but so finished off, and adorned218 with pinnacles, and all manner of architectural devices,—wherewith these old builders knew how to alleviate219 their massive structures,—that it seems to sit lightly in the air. The porch was open, and some workmen were trundling barrows into the nave; so I followed, and found two young women sitting just within the porch, one of whom offered to show me round the cathedral. There was a great dust in the nave, arising from the operations of the workmen. They had been laying a new pavement, and scraping away the plaster, which had heretofore been laid over the pillars and walls. The pillars come out from the process as good as new,—great, round, massive columns, not clustered like those of most cathedrals; they are twenty-one feet in circumference220, and support semicircular arches. I think there are seven of these columns, on each side of the nave, which did not impress me as very spacious108; and the dust and racket of the work-people quite destroyed the effect which should have been produced by the aisles and arches; so that I hardly stopped to glance at this part, though I saw some mural monuments and recumbent statues along the walls.
The choir is separated from the nave by the usual screen, and now by a sail-cloth or something of that kind, drawn221 across, in order to keep out the dust, while the repairs are going on. When the young woman conducted me hither, I was at once struck by the magnificent eastern window, the largest in England, which fills, or looks vast enough to fill, all that end of the cathedral,—a most splendid window, full of old painted glass, which looked as bright as sunshine, though the sun was not really shining through it. The roof of the choir is of oak and very fine, and as much as ninety feet high. There are chapels222 opening from the choir, and within them the monuments of the eminent224 people who built them, and of benefactors225 or prelates, or of those otherwise illustrious in their day. My recollection of what I saw here is very dim and confused; more so than I anticipated. I remember somewhere within the choir the tomb of Edward II. with his effigy226 upon the top of it, in a long robe, with a crown on his head, and a ball and sceptre in his hand; likewise, a statue of Robert, son of the Conqueror227, carved in Irish oak and painted. He lolls in an easy posture228 on his tomb, with one leg crossed lightly over the other, to denote that he was a Crusader. There are several monuments of mitred abbots who formerly presided over the cathedral. A Cavalier and his wife, with the dress of the period elaborately represented, lie side by side in excellent preservation229; and it is remarkable that though their noses are very prominent, they have come down from the past without any wear and tear. The date of the Cavalier's death is 1637, and I think his statue could not have been sculptured until after the Restoration, else he and his dame230 would hardly have come through Cromwell's time unscathed. Here, as in all the other churches in England, Cromwell is said to have stabled his horses, and broken the windows, and belabored231 the old monuments.
There is one large and beautiful chapel223, styled the Lady's Chapel, which is, indeed, a church by itself, being ninety feet long, and comprising everything that appertains to a place of worship. Here, too, there are monuments, and on the floor are many old bricks and tiles, with inscriptions on them, or Gothic devices, and flat tombstones, with coats of arms sculptured on them; as, indeed, there are everywhere else, except in the nave, where the new pavement has obliterated them. After viewing the choir and the chapels, the young woman led me down into the crypts below, where the dead persons who are commemorated232 in the upper regions were buried. The low ponderous pillars and arches of these crypts are supposed to be older than the upper portions of the building. They are about as perfect, I suppose, as when new, but very damp, dreary, and darksome; and the arches intersect one another so intricately, that, if the girl had deserted233 me, I might easily have got lost there. These are chapels where masses used to be said for the souls of the deceased; and my guide said that a great many skulls234 and bones had been dug up here. No doubt a vast population has been deposited in the course of a thousand years. I saw two white skulls, in a niche235, grinning as skulls always do, though it is impossible to see the joke. These crypts, or crypts like these, are doubtless what Congreve calls the "aisles and monumental caves of Death," in that passage which Dr. Johnson admired so much. They are very singular,—something like a dark shadow or dismal236 repetition of the upper church below ground.
Ascending237 from the crypts, we went next to the cloisters, which are in a very perfect state, and form an unbroken square about the green grass-plot, enclosed within. Here also it is said Cromwell stabled his horses; but if so, they were remarkably238 quiet beasts, for tombstones, which form the pavement, are not broken, nor cracked, nor bear any hoof-marks. All around the cloisters, too, the stone tracery that shuts them in like a closed curtain, carefully drawn, remains as it was in the days of the monks239, insomuch that it is not easy to get a glimpse of the green enclosure. Probably there used to be painted glass in the larger apertures240 of this stone-work; otherwise it is perfect. These cloisters are very different from the free, open, and airy ones of Salisbury; but they are more in accordance with our notions of monkish241 habits; and even at this day, if I were a canon of Gloucester, I would put that dim ambulatory to a good use. The library is adjacent to the cloisters, and I saw some rows of folios and quartos. I have nothing else to record about the cathedral, though if I were to stay there a month, I suppose it might then begin to be understood. It is wicked to look at these solemn old churches in a hurry. By the by, it was not built in a hurry; but in full three hundred years, having been begun in 1188 and only finished in 1498, not a great many years before Papistry began to go out of vogue242 in England.
From Gloucester I took the rail for Basingstoke before noon. The first part of the journey was through an uncommonly243 beautiful tract244 of country, hilly, but not wild; a tender and graceful245 picturesqueness,—fine, single trees and clumps246 of trees, and sometimes wide woods, scattered over the landscape, and filling the nooks of the hills with luxuriant foliage. Old villages scattered frequently along our track, looking very peaceful, with the peace of past ages lingering about them; and a rich, rural verdure of antique cultivation247 everywhere. Old country-seats—specimens of the old English hall or manor-house—appeared on the hillsides, with park-scenery surrounding the mansions248; and the gray churches rose in the midst of all the little towns. The beauty of English scenery makes me desperate, it is so impossible to describe it, or in any way to record its impression, and such a pity to leave it undescribed; and, moreover, I always feel that I do not get from it a hundredth or a millionth part of the enjoyment249 that there really is in it, hurrying past it thus. I was really glad when we rumbled250 into a tunnel, piercing for a long distance through a hill; and, emerging on the other side, we found ourselves in a comparatively level and uninteresting tract of country, which lasted till we reached Southampton. English scenery, to be appreciated and to be reproduced with pen and pencil, requires to be dwelt upon long, and to be wrought out with the nicest touches. A coarse and hasty brush is not the instrument for such work.
July 6th.—Monday, June 30th, was a warm and beautiful day, and my wife and I took a cab from Southampton and drove to
NETLEY ABBEY,
about three or four miles. The remains of the Abbey stand in a sheltered place, but within view of Southampton Water; and it is a most picturesque and perfect ruin, all ivy-grown, of course, and with great trees where the pillars of the nave used to stand, and also in the refectory and the cloister128 court; and so much soil on the summit of the broken walls, that weeds flourish abundantly there, and grass too; and there was a wild rosebush, in full bloom, as much as thirty or forty feet from the ground. S——- and I ascended251 a winding252 stair, leading up within a round tower, the steps much foot-worn; and, reaching the top, we came forth at the height where a gallery had formerly run round the church, in the thickness of the wall. The upper portions of the edifice were now chiefly thrown down; but I followed a foot-path, on the top of the remaining wall, quite to the western entrance of the church. Since the time when the Abbey was taken from the monks, it has been private property; and the possessor, in Henry VIII.'s days, or subsequently, built a residence for himself within its precincts out of the old materials. This has now entirely disappeared, all but some unsightly old masonry253, patched into the original walls. Large portions of the ruin have been removed, likewise, to be used as building-materials elsewhere; and this is the Abbey mentioned, I think, by Dr. Watts254, concerning which a Mr. William Taylor had a dream while he was contemplating255 pulling it down. He dreamed that a part of it fell upon his head; and, sure enough, a piece of the wall did come down and crush him. In the nave I saw a large mass of conglomerated stone that had fallen from the wall between the nave and cloisters, and thought that perhaps this was the very mass that killed poor Mr. Taylor.
The ruins are extensive and very interesting; but I have put off describing them too long, and cannot make a distinct picture of them now. Moreover, except to a spectator skilled in architecture, all ruined abbeys are pretty much alike. As we came away, we noticed some women making baskets at the entrance, and one of them urged us to buy some of her handiwork; for that she was the gypsy of Netley Abbey, and had lived among the ruins these thirty years. So I bought one for a shilling. She was a woman with a prominent nose, and weather-tanned, but not very picturesque or striking.
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1
consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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potentates
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| n.君主，统治者( potentate的名词复数 )；有权势的人 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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11
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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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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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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18
sociably
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| adv.成群地 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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ratify
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| v.批准，认可，追认 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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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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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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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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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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diffusing
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| （使光）模糊，漫射，漫散( diffuse的现在分词 )； （使）扩散； （使）弥漫； （使）传播 | |
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hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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consular
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| a.领事的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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61
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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parlors
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| 客厅( parlor的名词复数 )； 起居室； （旅馆中的）休息室； （通常用来构成合成词）店 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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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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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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mistily
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| adv.有雾地，朦胧地，不清楚地 | |
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73
scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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74
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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75
waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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76
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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77
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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78
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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79
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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80
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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82
dinginess
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| n.暗淡，肮脏 | |
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83
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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84
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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85
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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86
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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87
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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88
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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89
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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90
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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91
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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92
patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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93
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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94
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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95
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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96
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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98
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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99
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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100
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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101
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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102
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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103
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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104
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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105
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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106
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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107
spaciousness
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| n.宽敞 | |
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108
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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109
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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110
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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111
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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112
whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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113
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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114
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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115
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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116
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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117
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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118
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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119
ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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120
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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121
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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122
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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123
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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124
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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125
abridging
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| 节略( abridge的现在分词 )； 减少； 缩短； 剥夺（某人的）权利（或特权等） | |
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126
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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127
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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128
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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129
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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130
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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131
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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132
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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133
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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134
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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135
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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136
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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137
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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138
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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139
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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140
overflows
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| v.溢出，淹没( overflow的第三人称单数 )；充满；挤满了人；扩展出界，过度延伸 | |
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141
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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142
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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143
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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144
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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145
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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146
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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147
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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148
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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149
quaintest
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| adj.古色古香的( quaint的最高级 )；少见的，古怪的 | |
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150
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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151
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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152
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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153
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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154
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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155
subsides
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的第三人称单数 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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156
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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157
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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158
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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159
dwarfing
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| n.矮化病 | |
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160
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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161
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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162
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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163
ridgy
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| adj.有脊的；有棱纹的；隆起的；有埂的 | |
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164
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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165
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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167
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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168
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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169
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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170
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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171
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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172
scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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173
bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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174
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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175
dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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176
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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177
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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178
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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179
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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180
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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181
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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182
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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183
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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184
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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185
antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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186
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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187
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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188
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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189
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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190
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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191
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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192
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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193
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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194
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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195
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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196
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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197
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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198
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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199
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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200
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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201
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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202
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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203
amalgamated
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| v.（使）（金属）汞齐化( amalgamate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）合并；联合；结合 | |
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204
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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205
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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206
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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207
diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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208
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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209
dingier
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| adj.暗淡的，乏味的( dingy的比较级 )；肮脏的 | |
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210
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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211
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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212
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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213
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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214
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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215
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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216
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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217
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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218
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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219
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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220
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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221
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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222
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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223
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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224
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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225
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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226
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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227
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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228
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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229
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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230
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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231
belabored
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| v.毒打一顿( belabor的过去式和过去分词 )；责骂；就…作过度的说明；向…唠叨 | |
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232
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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234
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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235
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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236
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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237
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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238
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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239
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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240
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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241
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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242
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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243
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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244
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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245
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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246
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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247
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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248
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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249
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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250
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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251
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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252
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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253
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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254
watts
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| （电力计量单位）瓦，瓦特( watt的名词复数 ) | |
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255
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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