On Thursday I went into London by one of the morning trains, and wandered about all day,—visiting the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, and Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's, the two latter of which I have already written about in former journals. On Friday, S——-, J——-, and I walked over the heath, and through the Park to Greenwich, and spent some hours in the Hospital. The painted hall struck me much more than at my first view of it; it is very beautiful indeed, and the effect of its frescoed8 ceiling most rich and magnificent, the assemblage of glowing hues9 producing a general result of splendor10. . . .
In the evening I went with Mr. and Mrs. ——— to a conversazione at Mrs. Newton Crosland's, who lives on Blackheath. . . . I met with one person who interested me,—Mr. Bailey, the author of Festus; and I was surprised to find myself already acquainted with him. It is the same Mr. Bailey whom I met a few months ago, when I first dined at Mr. ——-'s,—a dark, handsome, rather picturesque-looking man, with a gray beard, and dark hair, a little dimmed with gray. He is of quiet and very agreeable deportment, and I liked him and believed in him. . . . There is sadness glooming out of him, but no unkindness nor asperity11. Mrs. Crosland's conversazione was enriched with a supper, and terminated with a dance, in which Mr. ——— joined with heart and soul, but Mrs. ——— went to sleep in her chair, and I would gladly have followed her example if I could have found a chair to sit upon. In the course of the evening I had some talk with a pale, nervous young lady, who has been a noted12 spiritual medium.
Yesterday I went into town by the steamboat from Greenwich to London Bridge, with a nephew of Mr. ———'s, and, calling at his place of business, he procured13 us an order from his wine-merchants, by means of which we were admitted into
We there found parties, with an acquaintance, who was going, with two French gentlemen, into the vaults. It is a good deal like going down into a mine, each visitor being provided with a lamp at the end of a stick; and following the guide along dismal16 passages, running beneath the streets, and extending away interminably,—roughly arched overhead with stone, from which depend festoons of a sort of black fungus17, caused by the exhalations of the wine. Nothing was ever uglier than this fungus. It is strange that the most ethereal effervescence of rich wine can produce nothing better.
The first series of vaults which we entered were filled with port-wine, and occupied a space variously estimated at from eleven to sixteen acres,—which I suppose would hold more port-wine than ever was made. At any rate, the pipes and butts18 were so thickly piled that in some places we could hardly squeeze past them. We drank from two or three vintages; but I was not impressed with any especial excellence19 in the wine. We were not the only visitors, for, far in the depths of the vault14, we passed a gentleman and two young ladies, wandering about like the ghosts of defunct20 wine-bibhers, in a Tophet specially21 prepared for then. People employed here sometimes go astray, and, their lamps being extinguished, they remain long in this everlasting22 gloom. We went likewise to the vaults of sherry-wine, which have the same characteristics as those just described, but are less extensive.
It is no guaranty for the excellence or even for the purity of the wine, that it is kept in these cellars, under the lock and key of the government; for the merchants are allowed to mix different vintages, according to their own pleasure, and to adulterate it as they like. Very little of the wine probably comes out as it goes in, or is exactly what it pretends to be. I went back to Mr. ———'s office, and we drove together to make some calls jointly23 and separately. I went alone to Mrs. Heywood's; afterwards with Mr. ——— to the American minister's, whom we found at home; and I requested of him, on the part of the Americans at Liverpool, to tell me the facts about the American gentleman being refused admittance to the Levee. The ambassador did not seem to me to make his point good for having withdrawn25 with the rejected guest.
July 9th. (Our wedding-day.)—We were invited yesterday evening to Mrs. S. C. Hall's, where Jenny Lind was to sing; so we left Blackheath at about eight o'clock in a brougham, and reached Ashley Place, as the dusk was gathering27, after nine. The Halls reside in a handsome suite28 of apartments, arranged on the new system of flats, each story constituting a separate tenement29, and the various families having an entrance-hall in common. The plan is borrowed from the Continent, and seems rather alien to the traditionary habits of the English; though, no doubt, a good degree of seclusion30 is compatible with it. Mr. Hall received us with the greatest cordiality before we entered the drawing-room. Mrs. Hall, too, greeted us with most kindly31 warmth. Jenny Lind had not yet arrived; but I found Dr. Mackay there, and I was introduced to Miss Catherine Sinclair, who is a literary lady, though none of her works happen to be known to me. Soon the servant announced Madam Goldschmidt, and this famous lady made her appearance, looking quite different from what I expected. Mrs. Hall established her in the inner drawing-room, where was a piano and a harp32; and shortly after, our hostess came to me, and said that Madam Goldschmidt wished to be introduced to me. There was a gentle peremptoriness33 in the summons, that made it something like being commanded into the presence of a princess; a great favor, no doubt, but yet a little humbling34 to the recipient35. However, I acquiesced36 with due gratitude37, and was presented accordingly. She made room for me on the sofa, and I sat down, and began to talk.
Jenny Lind is rather tall,—quite tall, for a woman,—certainly no beauty, but with sense and self-reliance in her aspect and manners. She was suffering under a severe cold, and seemed worn down besides, so probably I saw her under disadvantages. Her conversation is quite simple, and I should have great faith in her sincerity38; and there is about her the manner of a person who knows the world, and has conquered it. She said something or other about The Scarlet39 Letter; and, on my part, I paid her such compliments as a man could pay who had never heard her sing. . . . Her conversational40 voice is an agreeable one, rather deep, and not particularly smooth. She talked about America, and of our unwholesome modes of life, as to eating and exercise, and of the ill-health especially of our women; but I opposed this view as far as I could with any truth, insinuating41 my opinion that we are about as healthy as other people, and affirming for a certainty that we live longer. In good faith, so far as I have any knowledge of the matter, the women of England are as generally out of health as those of America; always something has gone wrong with them; and as for Jenny Lind, she looks wan7 and worn enough to be an American herself. This charge of ill-health is almost universally brought forward against us nowadays,—and, taking the whole country together, I do not believe the statistics will bear it out.
The rooms, which were respectably filled when we arrived, were now getting quite full. I saw Mr. Stevens, the American man of libraries, and had some talk with him; and Durham, the sculptor42; and Mr. and Mrs. Hall introduced me to various people, some of whom were of note,—for instance, Sir Emerson Tennent, a man of the world, of some parliamentary distinction, wearing a star; Mr. Samuel Lover, a most good-natured, pleasant Irishman, with a shining and twinkling visage; Miss Jewsbury, whom I found very conversable. She is known in literature, but not to me. We talked about Emerson, whom she seems to have been well acquainted with while he was in England; and she mentioned that Miss Martineau had given him a lock of hair; it was not her own hair, but a mummy's.
After our return, Mrs. ——— told us that Miss Jewsbury had written, among other things, three histories, and as she asked me to introduce her to S——-, and means to cultivate our acquaintance, it would be well to know something of them. We were told that she is now employed in some literary undertaking43 of Lady Morgan's, who, at the age of ninety, is still circulating in society, and is as brisk in faculties44 as ever. I should like to see her ladyship, that is, I should not be sorry to see her; for distinguished45 people are so much on a par2 with others, socially, that it would be foolish to be overjoyed at seeing anybody whomsoever.
Leaving out the illustrious Jenny Lind, I suspect that I was myself the greatest lion of the evening; for a good many persons sought the felicity of knowing me, and had little or nothing to say when that honor and happiness was conferred on them. It is surely very wrong and ill-mannered in people to ask for an introduction unless they are prepared to make talk; it throws too great an expense and trouble on the wretched lion, who is compelled, on the spur of the moment, to convert a conversable substance out of thin air, perhaps for the twentieth time that evening. I am sure I did not say—and I think I did not hear said— one rememberable word in the course of this visit; though, nevertheless, it was a rather agreeable one. In due season ices and jellies were handed about; and some ladies and gentlemen—professional, perhaps—were kind enough to sing songs, and play on the piano and harp, while persons in remote corners went on with whatever conversation they had in hand. Then came supper; but there were so many people to go into the supper-room that we could not all crowd thither46 together, and, coming late, I got nothing but some sponge-cake and a glass of champagne47, neither of which I care for. After supper, Mr. Lover sang some Irish songs, his own in music and words, with rich, humorous effect, to which the comicality of his face contributed almost as much as his voice and words. The Lord Mayor looked in for a little while, and though a hard-featured Jew enough, was the most picturesque person there.
July 10th.—Mrs. Heywood had invited me to dinner last evening. . . . Her house is very finely situated48, overlooking Hyde Park, and not a great way from where Tyburn tree used to stand. When I arrived, there were no guests but Mr. and Mrs. D———; but by and by came Mr. Monckton Milnes and lady, the Bishop49 of Lichfield, Mr. Tom Taylor, Mr. Ewart, M. P., Sir Somebody Somerville, Mr. and Mrs. Musgrave, and others. Mr. Milnes, whom I had not seen for more than a year, greeted me very cordially, and so did Mr. Taylor. I took Mrs. Musgrave in to dinner. She is an Irish lady, and Mrs. Heywood had recommended her to me as being very conversable; but I had a good deal more talk with Mrs. M———, with whom I was already acquainted, than with her. Mrs. M——— is of noble blood, and therefore not snobbish,—quite unaffected, gentle, sweet, and easy to get on with, reminding me of the best-mannered American women. But how can anything characteristic be said or done among a dozen people sitting at table in full dress? Speaking of full dress, the Bishop wore small-clothes and silk stockings, and entered the drawing-room with a three-cornered hat, which he kept flattened50 out under his arm. He asked the briefest blessing51 possible, and, sitting at the ultra end of the table, I heard nothing further from him till he officiated as briefly52 before the cloth was withdrawn. Mrs. M——— talked about Tennyson, with whom her husband was at the University, and whom he continues to know intimately. She says that he considers Maud his best poem. He now lives in the Isle53 of Wight, spending all the year round there, and has recently bought the place on which he resides. She was of opinion that he would have been gratified by my calling on him, which I had wished to do, while we were at Southampton; but this is a liberty which I should hardly venture upon with a shy man like Tennyson,—more especially as he might perhaps suspect me of doing it on the score of my own literary character.
But I should like much to see him Mr. Tom Taylor, during dinner, made some fun for the benefit of the ladies on either side of him. I liked him very well this evening.
When the ladies had not long withdrawn, and after the wine had once gone round, I asked Mr. Heywood to make my apologies to Mrs. Heywood, and took leave; all London lying betwixt me and the London Bridge station, where I was to take the rail homeward. At the station I found Mr. Bennoch, who had been dining with the Lord Mayor to meet Sir William Williams, and we railed to Greenwich, and reached home by midnight. Mr. and Mrs. Bennoch have set out on their Continental54 journey to-day,—leaving us, for a little space, in possession of what will be more like a home than anything that we shall hereafter find in England.
This afternoon I had taken up the fourth volume of Jerdan's Autobiography,—wretched twaddle, though it records such constant and apparently55 intimate intercourse56 with distinguished people,—and was reading it, between asleep and awake, on the sofa, when Mr. Jerdan himself was announced. I saw him, in company with Mr. Bennoch, nearly three years ago, at Rock Park, and wondered then what there was in so uncouth57 an individual to get him so freely into polished society. He now looks rougher than ever,—time-worn, but not reverend; a thatch58 of gray hair on his head; an imperfect set of false teeth; a careless apparel, checked trousers, and a stick, for he had walked a mile or two from his own dwelling59.
I suspect—and long practice at the Consulate60 has made me keen-sighted— that Mr. Jerdan contemplated61 some benefit from my purse; and, to the extent of a sovereign or so, I would not mind contributing to his comfort. He spoke62 of a secret purpose of Mr. ——— and himself to obtain me a degree or diploma in some Literary Institution,—what one I know not, and did not ask; but the honor cannot be a high one, if this poor old fellow can do aught towards it. I am afraid he is a very disreputable senior, but certainly not the less to be pitied on that account; and there was something very touching63 in his stiff and infirm movement, as he resumed his stick and took leave, waving me a courteous64 farewell, and turning upon me a smile, grim with age, as he went down the steps. In that gesture and smile I fancied some trace of the polished man of society, such as he may have once been; though time and hard weather have roughened him, as they have the once polished marble pillars which I saw so rude in aspect at Netley Abbey.
Speaking of Dickens last evening, Mr. ——— mentioned his domestic tastes,—how he preferred home enjoyments66 to all others, and did not willingly go much into society. Mrs. ———, too, the other day told us of his taking on himself all possible trouble as regards his domestic affairs. . . . There is a great variety of testimony68, various and varied69, as to the character of Dickens. I must see him before I finally leave England.
July 13th.—On Friday morning (11th), at nine o'clock, I took the rail into town to breakfast with Mr. Milnes. As he had named a little after ten as the hour, I could not immediately proceed to his house, and so walked moderately over London Bridge and into the city, meaning to take a cab from Charing70 Cross, or thereabouts. Passing through some street or other, contiguous to Cheapside, I saw in a court-yard the entrance to the Guildhall, and stepped in to look at it. It is a spacious71 hall, about one hundred and fifty feet long, and perhaps half as broad, paved with flagstones which look worn and some of them cracked across; the roof is very lofty and was once vaulted72, but has been shaped anew in modern times. There is a vast window partly filled with painted glass, extending quite along each end of the hall, and a row of arched windows on either side, throwing their light from far above downward upon the pavement. This fashion of high windows, not reaching within twenty or thirty feet of the floor, serves to give great effect to the large enclosed space of an antique hall. Against the walls are several marble monuments; one to the Earl of Chatham, a statue of white marble, with various allegorical contrivances, fronting an obelisk73 or pyramid of dark marble; and another to his son, William Pitt, of somewhat similar design and of equal size; each of them occupying the whole space, I believe, between pavement and ceiling. There is likewise a statue of Beckford, a famous Lord Mayor,—the most famous except Whittington, and that one who killed Wat Tyler; and like those two, his fame is perhaps somewhat mythological74, though he lived and bustled75 within less than a century. He is said to have made a bold speech to the King; but this I will not believe of any Englishman—at least, of any plebeian76 Englishman—until I hear it. But there stands his statue in the Guildhall in the act of making his speech, as if the monstrous77 attempt had petrified78 him.
Lord Nelson, too, has a monument, and so, I think, has some other modern worthy79. At one end of the hall, under one of the great painted windows, stand three or four old statues of mediaeval kings, whose identities I forget; and in the two corners of the opposite end are two gigantic absurdities80 of painted wood, with grotesque81 visages, whom I quickly recognized as Gog and Magog. They stand each on a pillar, and seem to be about fifteen feet high, and look like enormous playthings for the children of giants; and it is strange to see them in this solemn old hall, among the memorials of dead heroes and statesmen. There is an annual banquet in the Guildhall, given by the Lord Mayor and sheriffs, and I believe it is the very acme82 of civic83 feasting.
After viewing the hall, as it still lacked something of ten, I continued my walk through that entanglement84 of city streets, and quickly found myself getting beyond my reckoning. I cannot tell whither I went, but I passed through a very dirty region, and I remember a long, narrow, evil-odored street, cluttered85 up with stalls, in which were vegetables and little bits of meat for sale; and there was a frowzy86 multitude of buyers and sellers. Still I blundered on, and was getting out of the density87 of the city into broader streets, but still shabby ones, when, looking at my watch, I found it to be past ten, and no cab-stand within sight. It was a quarter past when I finally got into one; and the driver told me that it would take half an hour to go from thence to Upper Brook88 Street; so that I was likely to exceed the license89 implied in Mr. Milnes's invitation. Whether I was quite beyond rule I cannot say; but it did not lack more than ten minutes of eleven when I was ushered90 up stairs, and I found all the company assembled. However, it is of little consequence, except that if I had come early, I should have been introduced to many of the guests, whom now I could only know across the table. Mrs. Milnes greeted me very kindly, and Mr. Milnes came towards me with an elderly gentleman in a blue coat and gray pantaloons,—with a long, rather thin, homely91 visage, exceedingly shaggy eyebrows92, though no great weight of brow, and thin gray hair, and introduced me to the Marquis of Lansdowne. The Marquis had his right hand wrapped up in a black-silk handkerchief; so he gave me his left, and, from some awkwardness in meeting it, when I expected the right, I gave him only three of my fingers,—a thing I never did before to any person, and it is droll93 that I should have done it to a Marquis. He addressed me with great simplicity94 and natural kindness, complimenting me on my works, and speaking about the society of Liverpool in former days. Lord Lansdowne was the friend of Moore, and has about him the aroma95 communicated by the memories of many illustrious people with whom he has associated.
Mr. Ticknor, the Historian of Spanish Literature, now greeted me. Mr. Milnes introduced me to Mrs. Browning, and assigned her to me to conduct into the breakfast-room. She is a small, delicate woman, with ringlets of dark hair, a pleasant, intelligent, and sensitive face, and a low, agreeable voice. She looks youthful and comely96, and is very gentle and lady-like. And so we proceeded to the breakfast-room, which is hung round with pictures; and in the middle of it stood a large round table, worthy to have been King Arthur's, and here we seated ourselves without any question of precedence or ceremony. On one side of me was an elderly lady, with a very fine countenance97, and in the course of breakfast I discovered her to be the mother of Florence Nightingale. One of her daughters (not Florence) was likewise present. Mrs. Milnes, Mrs. Browning, Mrs. Nightingale, and her daughter were the only ladies at table; and I think there were as many as eight or ten gentlemen, whose names—as I came so late—I was left to find out for myself, or to leave unknown.
It was a pleasant and sociable98 meal, and, thanks to my cold beef and coffee at home, I had no occasion to trouble myself much about the fare; so I just ate some delicate chicken, and a very small cutlet, and a slice of dry toast, and thereupon surceased from my labors99. Mrs. Browning and I talked a good deal during breakfast, for she is of that quickly appreciative101 and responsive order of women with whom I can talk more freely than with any man; and she has, besides, her own originality102, wherewith to help on conversation, though, I should say, not of a loquacious103 tendency. She introduced the subject of spiritualism, which, she says, interests her very much; indeed, she seems to be a believer. Mr. Browning, she told me, utterly104 rejects the subject, and will not believe even in the outward manifestations105, of which there is such overwhelming evidence. We also talked of Miss Bacon; and I developed something of that lady's theory respecting Shakespeare, greatly to the horror of Mrs. Browning, and that of her next neighbor,—a nobleman, whose name I did not hear. On the whole, I like her the better for loving the man Shakespeare with a personal love. We talked, too, of Margaret Fuller, who spent her last night in Italy with the Brownings; and of William Story, with whom they have been intimate, and who, Mrs. Browning says, is much stirred about spiritualism. Really, I cannot help wondering that so fine a spirit as hers should not reject the matter, till, at least, it is forced upon her. I like her very much.
Mrs. Nightingale had been talking at first with Lord Lansdowne, who sat next her, but by and by she turned to nee, and began to speak of London smoke Then, there being a discussion about Lord Byron on the other side of the table, she spoke to me about Lady Byron, whom she knows intimately, characterizing her as a most excellent and exemplary person, high-principled, unselfish, and now devoting herself to the care of her two grandchildren,—their mother, Byron's daughter, being dead. Lady Byron, she says, writes beautiful verses. Somehow or other, all this praise, and more of the same kind, gave me an idea of an intolerably irreproachable106 person; and I asked Mrs. Nightingale if Lady Byron were warm-hearted. With some hesitation107, or mental reservation,—at all events, not quite outspokenly,—she answered that she was.
I was too much engaged with these personal talks to attend much to what was going on elsewhere; but all through breakfast I had been more and more impressed by the aspect of one of the guests, sitting next to Milnes. He was a man of large presence,—a portly personage, gray-haired, but scarcely as yet aged108; and his face had a remarkable intelligence, not vivid nor sparkling, but conjoined with great quietude,—and if it gleamed or brightened at one time more than another, it was like the sheen over a broad surface of sea. There was a somewhat careless self-possession, large and broad enough to be called dignity; and the more I looked at him, the more I knew that he was a distinguished person, and wondered who. He might have been a minister of state; only there is not one of them who has any right to such a face and presence. At last,—I do not know how the conviction came,—but I became aware that it was Macaulay, and began to see some slight resemblance to his portraits. But I have never seen any that is not wretchedly unworthy of the original. As soon as I knew him, I began to listen to his conversation, but he did not talk a great deal, contrary to his usual custom; for I am told he is apt to engross109 all the talk to himself. Probably he may have been restrained by the presence of Ticknor, and Mr. Palfrey, who were among his auditors110 and interlocutors; and as the conversation seemed to turn much on American subjects, he could not well have assumed to talk them down. I am glad to have seen him,—a face fit for a scholar, a man of the world, a cultivated intelligence.
After we left the table, and went into the library, Mr. Browning introduced himself to me,—a younger man than I expected to see, handsome, with brown hair. He is very simple and agreeable in manner, gently impulsive111, talking as if his heart were uppermost. He spoke of his pleasure in meeting me, and his appreciation112 of my books; and—which has not often happened to me—mentioned that The Blithedale Romance was the one he admired most. I wonder why. I hope I showed as much pleasure at his praise as he did at mine; for I was glad to see how pleasantly it moved him. After this, I talked with Ticknor and Miles, and with Mr. Palfrey, to whom I had been introduced very long ago by George Hillard, and had never seen him since. We looked at some autographs, of which Mr. Milnes has two or three large volumes. I recollect113 a leaf from Swift's Journal to Stella; a letter from Addison; one from Chatterton, in a most neat and legible hand; and a characteristic sentence or two and signature of Oliver Cromwell, written in a religious book. There were many curious volumes in the library, but I had not time to look at them.
I liked greatly the manners of almost all,—yes, as far as I observed,— all the people at this breakfast, and it was doubtless owing to their being all people either of high rank or remarkable intellect, or both. An Englishman can hardly be a gentleman, unless he enjoy one or other of these advantages; and perhaps the surest way to give him good manners is to make a lord of him, or rather of his grandfather or great-grandfather. In the third generation, scarcely sooner, he will be polished into simplicity and elegance114, and his deportment will be all the better for the homely material out of which it is wrought115 and refined. The Marquis of Lansdowne, for instance, would have been a very commonplace man in the common ranks of life; but it has done him good to be a nobleman. Not that his tact116 is quite perfect. In going up to breakfast, he made me precede him; in returning to the library, he did the same, although I drew back, till he impelled117 me up the first stair, with gentle persistence118. By insisting upon it, he showed his sense of condescension119 much more than if, when he saw me unwilling120 to take precedence, he had passed forward, as if the point were not worth either asserting or yielding. Heaven knows, it was in no humility121 that I would have trodden behind him. But he is a kind old man; and I am willing to believe of the English aristocracy generally that they are kind, and of beautiful deportment; for certainly there never can have been mortals in a position more advantageous122 for becoming so. I hope there will come a time when we shall be so; and I already know a few Americans, whose noble and delicate manners may compare well with any I have seen.
I left the house with Mr. Palfrey. He has cone123 to England to make some researches in the State Paper Office, for the purposes of a work which he has in hand. He mentioned to me a letter which he had seen, written from New England in the time of Charles II. and referring to the order sent by the minister of that day for the appearance of Governor Bellingham and my ancestor on this side of the water. The signature of this letter is an anagram of my ancestor's name. The letter itself is a very bold and able one, controverting124 the propriety125 of the measure above indicated; and Mr. Palfrey feels certain that it was written by my aforesaid ancestor. I mentioned my wish to ascertain126 the place in England whence the family emigrated; and Mr. Palfrey took me to the Record Office, and introduced me to Mr. Joseph Hunter,—a venerable and courteous gentleman, of antiquarian pursuits. The office was odorous of musty parchments, hundreds of years old. Mr. Hunter received me with great kindness, and gave me various old records and rolls of parchment, in which to seek for my family name; but I was perplexed127 with the crabbed128 characters, and soon grew weary and gave up the quest. He says that it is very seldom that an American family, springing from the early settlers, can be satisfactorily traced back to their English ancestry129.
July 16th.—Monday morning I took the rail from Blackheath to London. It is a very pleasant place, Blackheath, and far more rural than one would expect, within five or six miles of London,—a great many trees, making quite a mass of foliage130 in the distance; green enclosures; pretty villas131, with their nicely kept lawns, and gardens, with grass-plots and flower borders; and village streets, set along the sidewalks with ornamental132 trees; and the houses standing133 a little back, and separated one from another,—all this within what is called the Park, which has its gateways134, and the sort of semi-privacy with which I first became acquainted at Rock Park.
From the London Bridge station I took a cab for Paddington, and then had to wait above two hours before a train started for Birkenhead. Meanwhile I walked a little about the neighborhood, which is very dull and uninteresting; made up of crescents and terraces, and rows of houses that have no individuality, and second-rate shops,—in short, the outskirts135 of the vast city, when it begins to have a kind of village character but no rurality or sylvan136 aspect, as at Blackheath. My journey, when at last we started, was quite unmarked by incident, and extremely tedious; it being a slow train, which plods137 on without haste and without rest. At about ten o'clock we reached Birkenhead, and there crossed the familiar and detestable Mersey, which, as usual, had a cloudy sky brooding over it. Mrs. Blodgett received me most hospitably138, but was impelled, by an overflow139 of guests, to put me into a little back room, looking into the court, and formerly140 occupied by my predecessor141, General Armstrong. . . . She expressed a hope that I might not see his ghost,—nor have I, as yet.
Speaking of ghosts, Mr. H. A. B——— told me a singular story to-day of an apparition142 that haunts the Times Office, in Printing-House Square. A Mr. W——— is the engineer of the establishment, and has his residence in the edifice143, which is built, I believe, on the site of Merchant Taylor's school,—an old house that was no longer occupied for its original purpose, and, being supposed haunted, was left untenanted. The father-in-law of Mr. W———, an old sea-captain, came on a visit to him and his wife, and was put into their guest-chamber144, where he passed the night. The next morning, assigning no very satisfactory reason, he cut his visit short and went away. Shortly afterwards, a young lady came to visit the W———'s; but she too went away the next morning,—going first to make a call, as she said, to a friend, and sending thence for her trunks. Mrs. W——— wrote to this young lady, asking an explanation. The young lady replied, and gave a singular account of an apparition,— how she was awakened145 in the night by a bright light shining through the window, which was parallel to the bed; then, if I remember rightly, her curtains were withdrawn, and a shape looked in upon her,—a woman's shape, she called it; but it was a skeleton, with lambent flames playing about its bones, and in and out among the ribs146. Other persons have since slept in this chamber, and some have seen the shape, others not. Mr. W——— has slept there himself without seeing anything. He has had investigations147 by scientific people, apparently under the idea that the phenomenon might have been caused by some of the Times's work-people, playing tricks on the magic-lantern principle; but nothing satisfactory has thus far been elucidated148. Mr. B——— had this story from Mrs. Gaskell. . . . Supposing it a ghost, nothing else is so remarkable as its choosing to haunt the precincts of the Times newspaper.
July 29th.—On Saturday, 26th, I took the rail from the Lime Street station for London, via the Trent Valley, and reached Blackheath in the evening. . . .
Sunday morning my wife and I, with J——-, railed into London, and drove to the Essex Street Chapel149, where Mr. Channing was to preach. The Chapel is the same where Priestley and Belsham used to preach,—one of the plainest houses of worship I was ever in, as simple and undecorated as the faith there inculcated. They retain, however, all the form and ceremonial of the English Established Church, though so modified as to meet the doctrinal views of the Unitarians. There may be good sense in this, inasmuch as it greatly lessens150 the ministerial labor100 to have a stated form of prayer, instead of a necessity for extempore outpourings; but it must be, I should think, excessively tedious to the congregation, especially as, having made alterations151 in these prayers, they cannot attach much idea of sanctity to them.
[Here follows a long record of Mr. Hawthorne's visit to Miss Bacon,— condensed in Our Old Hone, in the paper called "Recollections of a Gifted Woman."]
August 2d.—On Wednesday (30th July) we went to Marlborough House to see the Vernon gallery of pictures. They are the works, almost entirely152 of English artists of the last and present century, and comprise many famous paintings; and I must acknowledge that I had more enjoyment67 of them than of those portions of the National Gallery which I had before seen,— including specimens153 of the grand old masters. My comprehension has not reached their height. I think nothing pleased me more than a picture by Sir David Wilkie,—The Parish Beadle, with a vagrant154 boy and a monkey in custody155; it is exceedingly good and true throughout, and especially the monkey's face is a wonderful production of genius, condensing within itself the whole moral and pathos156 of the picture.
Marlborough House was the residence of the Great Duke, and is to be that of the Prince of Wales, when another place is found for the pictures. It adjoins St. James's Palace. In its present state it is not a very splendid mansion157, the rooms being small, though handsomely shaped, with vaulted ceilings, and carved white-marble fireplaces. I left S——- here after an hour or two, and walked forth158 into the hot and busy city with J——-. . . . I called at Routledge's bookshop, in hopes to make an arrangement with him about Miss Bacon's business. But Routledge himself is making a journey in the north, and neither of the partners was there, so that I shall have to go thither some other day. Then we stepped into St. Paul's Cathedral to cool ourselves, and it was delightful159 so to escape from the sunny, sultry turmoil160 of Fleet Street and Ludgate, and find ourselves at once in this remote, solemn, shadowy seclusion, marble-cool. O that we had cathedrals in America, were it only for the sensuous161 luxury! We strolled round the cathedral, and I delighted J——- much by pointing out the monuments of three British generals, who were slain162 in America in the last war,—the naughty and bloodthirsty little man! We then went to Guildhall, where I thought J——- would like to see Gog and Magog; but he had never heard of those illustrious personages, and took no interest in them. . . . But truly I am grateful to the piety163 of former times for raising this vast, cool canopy164 of marble [St. Paul's] in the midst of the feverish165 city. I wandered quite round it, and saw, in a remote corner, a monument to the officers of the Coldstream Guards, slain in the Crimea. It was a mural tablet, with the names of the officers on an escutcheon; and two privates of the Guards, in marble bas-relief, were mourning over them. Over the tablet hung two silken banners, new and glossy166, with the battles in which the regiment167 has been engaged inscribed168 on them,—not merely Crimean but Peninsular battles. These banners will bang there till they drop away in tatters.
After thus refreshing170 myself in the cathedral, I went again to Routledge's in Farrington Street, and saw one of the firm. He expressed great pleasure at seeing me, as indeed he might, having published and sold, without any profit on my part, uncounted thousands of my books. I introduced the subject of Miss Bacon's work; and he expressed the utmost willingness to do everything in his power towards bringing it before the world, but thought that his firm—it being their business to publish for the largest circle of readers—was not the most eligible171 for the publication of such a book. Very likely this may be so. At all events, however, I am to send him the manuscript, and he will at least give me his advice and assistance in finding a publisher. He was good enough to express great regret that I had no work of my own to give him for publication; and, truly, I regret it too, since, being a resident in England, I could now have all the publishing privileges of a native author. He presented me with a copy of an illustrated172 edition of Longfellow's Poems, and I took my leave.
Thence I went to the Picture Gallery at the British Institution, where there are three rooms full of paintings by the first masters, the property of private persons. Every one of them, no doubt, was worth studying for a long, long time; and I suppose I may have given, on an average, a minute to each. What an absurdity173 it would seem, to pretend to read two or three hundred poems, of all degrees between an epic174 and a ballad175, in an hour or two! And a picture is a poem, only requiring the greater study to be felt and comprehended; because the spectator must necessarily do much for himself towards that end. I saw many beautiful things,—among them some landscapes by Claude, which to the eye were like the flavor of a rich, ripe melon to the palate.
August 7th.—Yesterday we took the rail for London, it being a fine, sunny day, though not so very warm as many of the preceding days have been. . . . We went along Piccadilly as far as the Egyptian Hall. It is quite remarkable how comparatively quiet the town has become, now that the season is over. One can see the difference in all the region west of Temple Bar; and, indeed, either the hot weather or some other cause seems to have operated in assuaging176 the turmoil in the city itself. I never saw London Bridge so little thronged177 as yesterday. At the Egyptian Hall, or in the same edifice, there is a gallery of pictures, the property of Lord Ward24, who allows the public to see them, five days of the week, without any trouble or restriction,—a great kindness on his Lordship's part, it must be owned. It is a very valuable collection, I presume, containing specimens of many famous old masters; some of the early and hard pictures by Raphael and his master and fellow-pupils,—very curious, and nowise beautiful; a perfect, sunny glimpse of Venice, by Canaletto; and saints, and Scriptural, allegorical, and mythological people, by Titian, Guido, Correggio, and many more names than I can remember. There is likewise a dead Magdalen by Canova, and a Venus by the same, very pretty, and with a vivid light of joyous178 expression in her face; . . . . also Powers's Greek Slave, in which I see little beauty or merit; and two or three other statues.
We then drove to Ashley Place, to call on Mrs. S. C. Hall, whom we found at home. In fact, Wednesday is her reception-day; although, as now everybody is out of town, we were the only callers. She is an agreeable and kindly woman. She told us that her husband and herself propose going to America next year, and I heartily179 wish they may meet with a warm and friendly reception. I have been seldom more assured of the existence of a heart than in her; also a good deal of sentiment. She had been visiting Bessie, the widow of Moore, at Sloperton, and gave S——- a rose from his cottage. Such things are very true and unaffected in her. The only wonder is that she has not lost such girlish freshness of feeling as prompts them. We did not see Mr. Hall, he having gone to the Crystal Palace.
Taking our leave, we returned along Victoria Street—a new street, penetrating180 through what was recently one of the worst parts of the town, and now bordered with large blocks of buildings, in a dreary181, half-finished state, and left so for want of funds—till we came to Westminster Abbey. We went in and spent an hour there, wandering all round the nave182 and aisles183, admiring the grand old edifice itself, but finding more to smile at than to admire in the monuments. . . . The interior view of the Abbey is better than can be described; the heart aches, as one gazes at it, for lack of power and breadth enough to take its beauty and grandeur184 in. The effect was heightened by the sun shining through the painted window in the western end, and by the bright sunshine that came through the open portal, and lay on the pavement,—that space so bright, the rest of the vast floor so solemn and sombre. At the western end, in a corner from which spectators are barred out, there is a statue of Wordsworth, which I do not recollect seeing at any former visit. Its only companion in the same nook is Pope's friend, Secretary Craggs.
Downing Street, that famous official precinct, took its name from Sir George Downing, who was proprietor185 or lessee186 of property there. He was a native of my own old native town, and his descendants still reside there,—collateral descendants, I suppose,—and follow the drygoods business (drapers).
August 10th.—I journeyed to Liverpool via Chester. . . . One sees a variety of climate, temperature, and season in a ride of two hundred miles, north and south, through England. Near London, for instance, the grain was reaped, and stood in sheaves in the stubble-fields, over which girls and children might be seen gleaning187; farther north, the golden, or greenish-golden, crops were waving in the wind. In one part of our way the atmosphere was hot and dry; at another point it had been cooled and refreshed by a heavy thunder-shower, the pools of which still lay along our track. It seems to me that local varieties of weather are more common in this island, and within narrower precincts, than in America. . . . I never saw England of such a dusky and dusty green before,—almost sunbrowned, indeed. Sometimes the green hedges formed a marked framework to a broad sheet of golden grain-field. As we drew near Oxford188, just before reaching the station I had a good view of its domes65, towers, and spires,—better, I think, than when J——- and I rambled189 through the town a month or two ago.
Mr. Frank Scott Haydon, of the Record Office, London, writes me that he has found a "Henry Atte Hawthorne" on a roll which he is transcribing190, of the first Edward III. He belonged to the Parish of Aldremeston, in the hundred of Blakenhurste, Worcester County.
August 21st.—Yesterday, at twelve o'clock, I took the steamer for Runcorn, from the pier191-head. In the streets, I had noticed that it was a breezy day; but on the river there was a very stiff breeze from the northeast, right ahead, blowing directly in our face the whole way; and truly this river Mersey is never without a breeze, and generally in the direction of its course,—an evil-tempered, unkindly, blustering192 wind, that you cannot meet without being exasperated193 by it. As it came straight against us, it was impossible to find a shelter anywhere on deck, except it were behind the stove-pipe; and, besides, the day was overcast194 and threatening rain.
I have undergone very miserable195 hours on the Mersey, where, in the space of two years, I voyaged thousands of miles,—and this trip to Runcorn reminded me of them, though it was less disagreeable after more than a twelvemonth's respite196. We had a good many passengers on board, most of whom were of the second class, and congregated197 on the forward deck; more women than men, I think, and some of them with their husbands and children. Several produced lunch and bottles, and refreshed themselves very soon after we started. By and by the wind became so disagreeable that I went below, and sat in the cabin, only occasionally looking out, to get a peep at the shores of the river, which I had never before seen above Eastham. However, they are not worth looking at; level and monotonous198, without trees or beauty of any kind,—here and there a village, and a modern church, on the low ridge6 behind; perhaps, a windmill, which the gusty199 day had set busily to work. The river continues very wide—no river indeed, but an estuary—during almost the whole distance to Runcorn; and nearly at the end of our voyage we approached some abrupt200 and prominent hills, which, many a time, I have seen on my passages to Rock Ferry, looking blue and dim, and serving for prophets of the weather; for when they can be distinctly seen adown the river, it is a token of coming rain. We met many vessels201, and passed many which were beating up against the wind, and which keeled over, so that their decks must have dipped,—schooners and vessels that come from the Bridgewater Canal. We shipped a sea ourselves, which gave the fore-deck passengers a wetting.
Before reaching Runcorn, we stopped to land some passengers at another little port, where there was a pier and a lighthouse, and a church within a few yards of the river-side,—a good many of the river-craft, too, in dock, forming quite a crowd of masts. About ten minutes' further steaming brought us to Runcorn, where were two or three tall manufacturing chimneys, with a pennant202 of black smoke from each; two vessels of considerable size on the stocks; a church or two; and a meagre, uninteresting, shabby, brick-built town, rising from the edge of the river, with irregular streets,—not village-like, but paved, and looking like a dwarfed203, stunted204 city. I wandered through it till I came to a tall, high-pedestalled windmill on the outer verge205, the vans of which were going briskly round. Thence retracing206 my steps, I stopped at a poor hotel, and took lunch, and, finding that I was in time to take the steamer back, I hurried on board, and we set sail (or steam) before three. I have heard of an old castle at Runcorn, but could discover nothing of it. It was well that I returned so promptly207, for we had hardly left the pier before it began to rain, and there was a heavy downfall throughout the voyage homeward. Runcorn is fourteen miles from Liverpool, and is the farthest point to which a steamer runs. I had intended to come home by rail,—a circuitous208 route,—but the advice of the landlady209 of the hotel, and the aspect of the weather, and a feeling of general discouragement prevented me.
An incident in S. C. Hall's Ireland, of a stone cross, buried in Cromwell's time, to prevent its destruction by his soldiers. It was forgotten, and became a mere169 doubtful tradition, but one old man had been told by his father, and he by his father, etc., that it was buried near a certain spot; and at last, two hundred years after the cross was buried, the vicar of the parish dug in that spot and found it. In my (English) romance, an American might bring the tradition from over the sea, and so discover the cross, which had been altogether forgotten.
August 24th.—Day before yesterday I took the rail for Southport,—a cool, generally overcast day, with glimmers210 of faint sunshine. The ride is through a most uninteresting tract211 of country, at first, glimpses of the river, with the thousands of masts in the docks; the dismal outskirts of a great town, still spreading onward212, with beginnings of streets, and insulated brick buildings and blocks; farther on, a wide monotony of level plain, and here and there a village and a church; almost always a windmill in sight, there being plenty of breeze to turn its vans on this windy coast. The railway skirts along the sea the whole distance, but is shut out from the sight of it by the low sand-hills, which seem to have been heaped up by the waves. There are one or two lighthouses on the shore. I have not seen a drearier213 landscape, even in Lancashire.
Reaching Southport at three, I rambled about, with a view to discover whether it be a suitable residence for my family during September. It is a large village, or rather more than a village, which seems to be almost entirely made up of lodging-houses, and, at any rate, has been built up by the influx214 of summer visitors,—a sandy soil, level, and laid out with well-paved streets, the principal of which are enlivened with bazaars215, markets, shops, hotels of various degrees, and a showy vivacity216 of aspect. There are a great many donkey-carriages,—large vehicles, drawn26 by a pair of donkeys; bath-chairs, with invalid217 ladies; refreshment-rooms in great numbers,—a place where everybody seems to be a transitory guest, nobody at home. The main street leads directly down to the sea-shore, along which there is an elevated embankment, with a promenade218 on the top, and seats, and the toll219 of a penny. The shore itself, the tide being then low, stretched out interminably seaward, a wide waste of glistering sands; and on the dry border, people were riding on donkeys, with the drivers whipping behind; and children were digging with their little wooden spades; and there were donkey-carriages far out on the sands,—a pleasant and breezy drive. A whole city of bathing-machines was stationed near the shore, and I saw others in the seaward distance. The sea-air was refreshing and exhilarating, and if S——- needs a seaside residence, I should think this might do as well as any other.
I saw a large brick edifice, enclosed within a wall, and with somewhat the look of an almshouse or hospital; and it proved to be an Infirmary, charitably established for the reception of poor invalids220, who need sea-air and cannot afford to pay for it. Two or three of such persons were sitting under its windows. I do not think that the visitors of Southport are generally of a very opulent class, but of the middle rank, from Manchester and other parts of this northern region. The lodging-houses, however, are of sufficiently221 handsome style and arrangement.
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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frescoed
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| 壁画( fresco的名词复数 )； 温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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fungus
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| n.真菌，真菌类植物 | |
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butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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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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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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peremptoriness
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| n.专横，强制，武断 | |
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humbling
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| adj.令人羞辱的v.使谦恭( humble的现在分词 )；轻松打败（尤指强大的对手）；低声下气 | |
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recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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acquiesced
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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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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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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situated
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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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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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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67
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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68
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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69
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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70
charing
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|
| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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71
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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72
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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73
obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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74
mythological
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|
| adj.神话的 | |
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75
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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76
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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77
monstrous
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|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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78
petrified
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|
| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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79
worthy
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|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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80
absurdities
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|
| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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81
grotesque
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|
| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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82
acme
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|
| n.顶点，极点 | |
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83
civic
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|
| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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84
entanglement
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|
| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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85
cluttered
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|
| v.杂物，零乱的东西零乱vt.( clutter的过去式和过去分词 )；乱糟糟地堆满，把…弄得很乱；（以…） 塞满… | |
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86
frowzy
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|
| adj.不整洁的；污秽的 | |
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87
density
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|
| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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88
brook
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|
| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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89
license
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|
| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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90
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
homely
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|
| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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92
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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93
droll
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|
| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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94
simplicity
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|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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95
aroma
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|
| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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96
comely
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|
| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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97
countenance
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|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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98
sociable
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|
| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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99
labors
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|
| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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100
labor
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|
| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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101
appreciative
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|
| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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102
originality
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|
| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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103
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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104
utterly
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|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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105
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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106
irreproachable
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|
| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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107
hesitation
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|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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108
aged
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|
| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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109
engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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110
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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111
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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112
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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113
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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114
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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115
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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116
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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117
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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119
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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120
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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121
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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122
advantageous
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|
| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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123
cone
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|
| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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124
controverting
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| v.争论，反驳，否定( controvert的现在分词 ) | |
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125
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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126
ascertain
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|
| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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127
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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128
crabbed
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|
| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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130
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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131
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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132
ornamental
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|
| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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133
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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134
gateways
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| n.网关( gateway的名词复数 )；门径；方法；大门口 | |
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135
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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136
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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137
plods
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的第三人称单数 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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138
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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139
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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140
formerly
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|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
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141
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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142
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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143
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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144
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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145
awakened
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|
| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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146
ribs
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|
| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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147
investigations
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|
| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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148
elucidated
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|
| v.阐明，解释( elucidate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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150
lessens
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| 变少( lessen的第三人称单数 )； 减少（某事物） | |
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151
alterations
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|
| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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152
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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153
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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154
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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155
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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156
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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157
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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158
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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159
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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160
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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161
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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162
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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163
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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164
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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165
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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166
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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167
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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168
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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169
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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170
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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171
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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172
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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173
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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174
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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175
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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176
assuaging
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| v.减轻( assuage的现在分词 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
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177
thronged
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|
| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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178
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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179
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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180
penetrating
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|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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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
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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183
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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184
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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185
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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186
lessee
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| n.（房地产的）租户 | |
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187
gleaning
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| n.拾落穗，拾遗，落穗v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的现在分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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188
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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189
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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190
transcribing
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的现在分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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191
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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192
blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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193
exasperated
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|
| adj.恼怒的 | |
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194
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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197
congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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201
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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202
pennant
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| n.三角旗；锦标旗 | |
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203
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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204
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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205
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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206
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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208
circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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glimmers
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| n.微光，闪光( glimmer的名词复数 )v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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drearier
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的比较级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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215
bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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216
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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