At Grantham, our route branches off from the main line; and there was a delay of about an hour, during which we walked up into the town, to take a nearer view of a tall gray steeple which we saw from the railway station. The streets that led from the station were poor and commonplace; and, indeed, a railway seems to have the effect of making its own vicinity mean. We noticed nothing remarkable10 until we got to the marketplace, in the centre of which there is a cross, doubtless of great antiquity11, though it is in too good condition not to have been recently repaired. It consists of an upright pillar, with a pedestal of half a dozen stone steps, which are worn hollow by the many feet that have scraped their hobnailed shoes upon them. Among these feet, it is highly probable, may have been those of Sir Isaac Newton, who was a scholar of the free school of this town; and when J——- scampered12 up the steps, we told him so. Visible from the market-place also stands the Angel Inn, which seems to be a wonderfully old inn, being adorned13 with gargoyles14 and other antique sculpture, with projecting windows, and an arched entrance, and presenting altogether a frontispiece of so much venerable state that I feel curious to know its history. Had I been aware that the chief hotel of Grantham were such a time-honored establishment, I should have arranged to pass the night there, especially as there were interesting objects enough in the town to occupy us pleasantly. The church—the steeple of which is seen over the market-place, but is removed from it by a street or two—is very fine; the tower and spire15 being adorned with arches, canopies16, and niches,—twelve of the latter for the twelve Apostles, all of whom have now vanished,—and with fragments of other Gothic ornaments18. The jackdaws have taken up their abodes19 in the crevices20 and crannies of the upper half of the steeple.
We left Grantham at nearly seven, and reached
NOTTINGHAM
just before eight. The castle, situated22 on a high and precipitous rock, directly over the edge of which look the walls, was visible, as we drove from the station to our hotel. We followed the advice of a railway attendant in going first to the May Pole, which proved to be a commercial inn, with the air of a drinking-shop, in a by-alley; and, furthermore, they could not take us in. So we drove to the George the Fourth, which seems to be an excellent house; and here I have remained quiet, the size of the town discouraging me from going out in the twilight23 which was fast coming on after tea. These are glorious long days for travel; daylight fairly between four in the morning and nine at night, and a margin24 of twilight on either side.
May 29th.—After breakfast, this morning, I wandered out and lost myself; but at last found the post-office, and a letter from Mr. Wilding, with some perplexing intelligence. Nottingham is an unlovely and uninteresting town. The castle I did not see; but, I happened upon a large and stately old church, almost cathedralic in its dimensions. On returning to the hotel, we deliberated on the mode of getting to Newstead Abbey, and we finally decided25 upon taking a fly, in which conveyance26, accordingly, we set out before twelve. It was a slightly overcast27 day, about half intermixed of shade and sunshine, and rather cool, but not so cool that we could exactly wish it warmer. Our drive to Newstead lay through what was once a portion of Sherwood Forest, though all of it, I believe, has now become private property, and is converted into fertile fields, except where the owners of estates have set out plantations28. We have now passed out of the fen-country, and the land rises and falls in gentle swells29, presenting a pleasant, but not striking, character of scenery. I remember no remarkable object on the road,—here and there an old inn, a gentleman's seat of moderate pretension30, a great deal of tall and continued hedge, a quiet English greenness and rurality, till, drawing near
NEWSTEAD ABBEY,
we began to see copious31 plantations, principally of firs, larches32, and trees of that order, looking very sombre, though with some intermingling of lighter33 foliage34. It was after one when we reached "The Hut,"—a small, modern wayside inn, almost directly across the road from the entrance-gate of Newstead. The post-boy calls the distance ten miles from Nottingham. He also averred35 that it was forbidden to drive visitors within the gates; so we left the fly at the inn, and set out to walk from the entrance to the house. There is no porter's lodge36; and the grounds, in this outlying region, had not the appearance of being very primly37 kept, but were well wooded with evergreens38, and much overgrown with ferns, serving for cover for hares, which scampered in and out of their hiding-places. The road went winding39 gently along, and, at the distance of nearly a mile, brought us to a second gate, through which we likewise passed, and walked onward40 a good way farther, seeing much wood, but as yet nothing of the Abbey. At last, through the trees, we caught a glimpse of its battlements, and saw, too, the gleam of water, and then appeared the Abbey's venerable front. It comprises the western wall of the church, which is all that remains41 of that fabric,—a great, central window, entirely42 empty, without tracery or mullions; the ivy43 clambering up on the inside of the wall, and hanging over in front. The front of the inhabited part of the house extends along on a line with this church wall, rather low, with battlements along its top, and all in good keeping with the ruinous remnant. We met a servant, who replied civilly to our inquiries44 about the mode of gaining admittance, and bade us ring a bell at the corner of the principal porch. We rang accordingly, and were forthwith admitted into a low, vaulted45 basement, ponderously46 wrought48 with intersecting arches, dark and rather chilly49, just like what I remember to have seen at Battle Abbey; and, after waiting here a little while, a respectable elderly gentlewoman appeared, of whom we requested to be shown round the Abbey. She courteously50 acceded51, first presenting us to a book in which to inscribe52 our names.
I suppose ten thousand people, three fourths of them Americans, have written descriptions of Newstead Abbey; and none of them, so far as I have read, give any true idea of the place; neither will my description, if I write one. In fact, I forget very much that I saw, and especially in what order the objects came. In the basement was Byron's bath,—a dark and cold and cellarlike hole, which it must have required good courage to plunge53 into; in this region, too, or near it, was the chapel54, which Colonel Wildman has decorously fitted up, and where service is now regularly performed, but which was used as a dog's kennel55 in Byron's time.
After seeing this, we were led to Byron's own bedchamber, which remains just as when he slept in it,—the furniture and all the other arrangements being religiously preserved. It was in the plainest possible style, homely57, indeed, and almost mean,—an ordinary paper-hanging, and everything so commonplace that it was only the deep embrasure of the window that made it look unlike a bedchamber in a middling-class lodging-house. It would have seemed difficult, beforehand, to fit up a room in that picturesque58 old edifice59 so that it should be utterly60 void of picturesqueness61; but it was effected in this apartment, and I suppose it is a specimen62 of the way in which old mansions63 used to be robbed of their antique character, and adapted to modern tastes, before mediaeval antiquities64 came into fashion. Some prints of the Cambridge colleges, and other pictures indicating Byron's predilections66 at the time, and which he himself had hung there, were on the walls. This, the housekeeper67 told us, had been the Abbot's chamber56, in the monastic time. Adjoining it is the haunted room, where the ghostly monk68, whom Byron introduces into Don Juan, is said to have his lurking-place. It is fitted up in the same style as Byron's, and used to be occupied by his valet or page. No doubt in his Lordship's day, these were the only comfortable bedrooms in the Abbey; and by the housekeeper's account of what Colonel Wildman has done, it is to be inferred that the place must have been in a most wild, shaggy, tumble-down condition, inside and out, when he bought it.
It is very different now. After showing us these two apartments of Byron and his servant, the housekeeper led us from one to another and another magnificent chamber fitted up in antique style, with oak panelling, and heavily carved bedsteads, of Queen Elizabeth's time, or of the Stuarts, hung with rich tapestry69 curtains of similar date, and with beautiful old cabinets of carved wood, sculptured in relief, or tortoise-shell and ivory. The very pictures and realities, these rooms were, of stately comfort; and they were called by the name of kings,—King Edward's, King Charles II's, King Henry VII's chamber; and they were hung with beautiful pictures, many of them portraits of these kings. The chimney-pieces were carved and emblazoned; and all, so far as I could judge, was in perfect keeping, so that if a prince or noble of three centuries ago were to come to lodge at Newstead Abbey, he would hardly know that he had strayed out of his own century. And yet he might have known by some token, for there are volumes of poetry and light literature on the tables in these royal bedchambers, and in that of Henry VII. I saw The House of the Seven Gables and The Scarlet71 Letter in Routledge's edition.
Certainly the house is admirably fitted up; and there must have been something very excellent and comprehensive in the domestic arrangements of the monks72, since they adapt themselves so well to a state of society entirely different from that in which they originated. The library is a very comfortable room, and provocative73 of studious ideas, though lounging and luxurious74. It is long, and rather low, furnished with soft couches, and, on the whole, though a man might dream of study, I think he would be most likely to read nothing but novels there. I know not what the room was in monkish75 times, but it was waste and ruinous in Lord Byron's. Here, I think, the housekeeper unlocked a beautiful cabinet, and took out the famous skull76 which Lord Byron transformed into a drinking-goblet77. It has a silver rim6 and stand, but still the ugly skull is bare and evident, and the naked inner bone receives the wine. I should think it would hold at least a quart,—enough to overpower any living head into which this death's-head should transfer its contents; and a man must be either very drunk or very thirsty, before he would taste wine out of such a goblet. I think Byron's freak was outdone by that of a cousin of my own, who once solemnly assured me that he had a spittoon made out of the skull of his enemy. The ancient coffin78 in which the goblet-skull was found was shown us in the basement of the Abbey.
There was much more to see in the house than I had any previous notion of; but except the two chambers70 already noticed, nothing remained the least as Byron left it. Yes, another place there was,—his own small dining-room, with a table of moderate size, where, no doubt, the skull-goblet has often gone its rounds. Colonel Wildman's dining-room was once Byron's shooting-gallery, and the original refectory of the monks. It is now magnificently arranged, with a vaulted roof, a music-gallery at one end, suits of armor and weapons on the walls, and mailed arms extended, holding candelabras. There are one or two painted windows, commemorative of the Peninsular war, and the battles in which the Colonel and his two brothers fought,—for these Wildmen seem to have been mighty79 troopers, and Colonel Wildman is represented as a fierce-looking mustachioed hussar at two different ages. The housekeeper spoke80 of him affectionately, but says that he is now getting into years, and that they fancy him failing. He has no children. He appears to have been on good terms with Byron, and had the latter ever returned to England, he was under promise to make his first visit to his old home, and it was in such an expectation that Colonel Wildman had kept Byron's private apartments in the same condition in which he found them. Byron was informed of all the Colonel's fittings up and restorations, and when he introduces the Abbey in Don Juan, the poet describes it, not as he himself left it, but as Colonel Wildman has restored it. There is a beautiful drawing-room, and all these apartments are adorned with pictures, the collection being especially rich in portraits by Sir Peter Lely,—that of Nell Gwynn being one, who is one of the few beautiful women whom I have seen on canvas.
We parted with the housekeeper, and I with a good many shillings, at the door by which we entered; and our next business was to see the private grounds and gardens. A little boy attended us through the first part of our progress, but soon appeared the veritable gardener,—a shrewd and sensible old man, who has been very many years on the place. There was nothing of special interest as concerning Byron until we entered the original old monkish garden, which is still laid out in the same fashion as the monks left it, with a large, oblong piece of water in the centre, and terraced banks rising at two or three different stages with perfect regularity81 around it; so that the sheet of water looks like the plate of an immense looking-glass, of which the terraces form the frame. It seems as if, were there any giant large enough, he might raise up this mirror and set it on end. In the monks' garden, there is a marble statue of Pan, which, the gardener told us, was brought by the "Wicked Lord" (great-uncle of Byron) from Italy, and was supposed by the country people to represent the Devil, and to be the object of his worship,—a natural idea enough, in view of his horns and cloven feet and tail, though this indicates, at all events, a very jolly devil. There is also a female statue, beautiful from the waist upward, but shaggy and cloven-footed below, and holding a little cloven-footed child by the hand. This, the old gardener assured us, was Pandora, wife of the above-mentioned Pan, with her son. Not far from this spot, we came to the tree on which Byron carved his own name and that of his sister Augusta. It is a tree of twin stems,—a birch-tree, I think,—growing up side by side. One of the stems still lives and flourishes, but that on which he carved the two names is quite dead, as if there had been something fatal in the inscription82 that has made it forever famous. The names are still very legible, although the letters had been closed up by the growth of the bark before the tree died. They must have been deeply cut at first.
There are old yew-trees of unknown antiquity in this garden, and many other interesting things; and among them may be reckoned a fountain of very pure water, called the "Holy Well," of which we drank. There are several fountains, besides the large mirror in the centre of the garden; and these are mostly inhabited by carp, the genuine descendants of those which peopled the fish-ponds in the days of the monks. Coming in front of the Abbey, the gardener showed us the oak that Byron planted, now a vigorous young tree; and the monument which he erected83 to his Newfoundland dog, and which is larger than most Christians84 get, being composed of a marble, altar-shaped tomb, surrounded by a circular area of steps, as much as twenty feet in diameter. The gardener said, however, that Byron intended this, not merely as the burial-place of his dog, but for himself too, and his sister. I know not how this may have been, but this inconvenience would have attended his being buried there, that, on transfer of the estate, his mortal remains would have become the property of some other man.
We had now come to the empty space,—a smooth green lawn, where had once been the Abbey church. The length had been sixty-four yards, the gardener said, and within his remembrance there had been many remains of it, but now they are quite removed, with the exception of the one ivy-grown western wall, which, as I mentioned, forms a picturesque part of the present front of the Abbey. Through a door in this wall the gardener now let us out. . . .
In the evening our landlady86, who seems to be a very intelligent woman, of a superior class to most landladies87, came into our parlor88, while I was out, and talked about the present race of Byrons and Lovelaces, who have often been at this house. There seems to be a taint89 in the Byron blood which makes those who inherit it wicked, mad, and miserable90. Even Colonel Wildman comes in for a share of this ill luck, for he has almost ruined himself by his expenditure91 on the estate, and by his lavish92 hospitality, especially to the Duke of Sussex, who liked the Colonel, and used often to visit him during his lifetime, and his Royal Highness's gentlemen ate and drank Colonel Wildman almost up. So says our good landlady. At any rate, looking at this miserable race of Byrons, who held the estate so long, and at Colonel Wildman, whom it has ruined in forty years, we might see grounds for believing in the evil fate which is supposed to attend confiscated93 church property. Nevertheless, I would accept the estate, were it offered me.
. . . . Glancing back, I see that I have omitted some items that were curious in describing the house; for instance, one of the cabinets had been the personal property of Queen Elizabeth. It seems to me that the fashion of modern furniture has nothing to equal these old cabinets for beauty and convenience. In the state apartments, the floors were so highly waxed and polished that we slid on them as if on ice, and could only make sure of our footing by treading on strips of carpeting that were laid down.
June 7th.—We left Nottingham a week ago, and made our first stage to Derby, where we had to wait an hour or two at a great, bustling94, pell-mell, crowded railway station. It was much thronged95 with second and third class passengers, coming and departing in continual trains; for these were the Whitsuntide holidays, which set all the lower orders of English people astir. This time of festival was evidently the origin of the old "Election" holidays in Massachusetts; the latter occurring at the same period of the year, and being celebrated96 (so long as they could be so) in very much the same way, with games, idleness, merriment of set purpose, and drunkenness. After a weary while we took the train for
MATLOCK,
via Ambergate, and arrived of the former place late in the afternoon. The village of Matlock is situated on the banks of the Derwent, in a delightful97 little nook among the hills, which rise above it in steeps, and in precipitous crags, and shut out the world so effectually that I wonder how the railway ever found it out. Indeed, it does make its approach to this region through a long tunnel. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon when we arrived, and my present impressions are, that I have never seen anywhere else such exquisite98 scenery as that which surrounds the village. The street itself, to be sure, is commonplace enough, and hot, dusty, and disagreeable; but if you look above it, or on either side, there are green hills descending99 abruptly100 down, and softened101 with woods, amid which are seen villas102, cottages, castles; and beyond the river is a line of crags, perhaps three hundred feet high, clothed with shrubbery in some parts from top to bottom, but in other places presenting a sheer precipice103 of rock, over which tumbles, as it were, a cascade104 of ivy and creeping plants. It is very beautiful, and, I might almost say, very wild; but it has those characteristics of finish, and of being redeemed105 from nature, and converted into a portion of the adornment106 of a great garden, which I find in all English scenery. Not that I complain of this; on the contrary, there is nothing that delights an American more, in contrast with the roughness and ruggedness107 of his native scenes,—to which, also, he might be glad to return after a while.
We put up at the old Bath Hotel,—an immense house, with passages of such extent that at first it seemed almost a day's journey from parlor to bedroom. The house stands on a declivity108, and after ascending109 one pair of stairs, we came, in travelling along the passageway, to a door that opened upon a beautifully arranged garden, with arbors and grottos110, and the hillside rising steep above. During all the time of our stay at Matlock there was brilliant sunshine, and, the grass and foliage being in their freshest and most luxuriant phase, the place has left as bright a picture as I have anywhere in my memory.
The morning after our arrival we took a walk, and, following the sound of a church-bell, entered what appeared to be a park, and, passing along a road at the base of a line of crags, soon came in sight of a beautiful church. I rather imagine it to be the place of worship of the Arkwright family, whose seat is in this vicinity,—the descendants of the famous Arkwright who contributed so much towards turning England into a cotton manufactory. We did not enter the church, but passed beyond it, and over a bridge, and along a road that ascended111 among the hills and finally brought us out by a circuit to the other end of Matlock village, after a walk of three or four miles. In the afternoon we took a boat across the Derwent,—a passage which half a dozen strokes of the oars112 accomplished113, —and reached a very pleasant seclusion114 called "The Lovers' Walk." A ferriage of twopence pays for the transit115 across the river, and gives the freedom of these grounds, which are threaded with paths that meander116 and zigzag117 to the top of the precipitous ridge65, amid trees and shrubbery, and the occasional ease of rustic118 seats. It is a sweet walk for lovers, and was so for us; although J——-, with his scramblings and disappearances119, and shouts from above, and headlong scamperings down the precipitous paths, occasionally frightened his mother. After gaining the heights, the path skirts along the precipice, allowing us to see down into the village street, and, nearer, the Derwent winding through the valley so close beneath us that we might have flung a stone into it. These crags would be very rude and harsh if left to themselves, but they are quite softened and made sweet and tender by the great deal of foliage that clothes their sides, and creeps and clambers over them, only letting a stern face of rock be seen here and there, and with a smile rather than a frown.
The next day, Monday, we went to see the grand cavern120. The entrance is high up on the hillside, whither we were led by a guide, of whom there are many, and they all pay tribute to the proprietor121 of the cavern. There is a small shed by the side of the cavern mouth, where the guide provided himself and us with tallow candles, and then led us into the darksome and ugly pit, the entrance of which is not very imposing122, for it has a door of rough pine boards, and is kept under lock and key. This is the disagreeable phase-one of the disagreeable phases—of man's conquest over nature in England,—cavern mouths shut up with cellar doors, cataracts123 under lock and key, precipitous crags compelled to figure in ornamented124 gardens,—and all accessible at a fixed125 amount of shillings or pence. It is not possible to draw a full free breath under such circumstances. When you think of it, it makes the wildest scenery look like the artificial rock-work which Englishmen are so fond of displaying in the little bit of grass-plot under their suburban126 parlor windows. However, the cavern was dreary127 enough and wild enough, though in a mean sort of way; for it is but a long series of passages and crevices, generally so narrow that you scrape your elbows, and so low that you hit your head. It has nowhere a lofty height, though sometimes it broadens out into ample space, but not into grandeur128, the roof being always within reach, and in most places smoky with the tallow candles that have been held up to it. A very dirty, sordid129, disagreeable burrow130, more like a cellar gone mad than anything else; but it served to show us how the crust of the earth is moulded. This cavern was known to the Romans, and used to be worked by them as a lead-mine. Derbyshire spar is now taken from it; and in some of its crevices the gleam of the tallow candles is faintly reflected from the crystallizations; but, on the whole, I felt like a mole131, as I went creeping along, and was glad when we came into the sunshine again. I rather think my idea of a cavern is taken from the one in the Forty Thieves, or in Gil Blas,—a vast, hollow womb, roofed and curtained with obscurity. This reality is very mean.
Leaving the cavern, we went to the guide's cottage, situated high above the village, where he showed us specimens132 of ornaments and toys manufactured by himself from Derbyshire spar and other materials. There was very pretty mosaic133 work, flowers of spar, and leaves of malachite, and miniature copies of Cleopatra's Needle, and other Egyptian monuments, and vases of graceful134 pattern, brooches, too, and many other things. The most valuable spar is called Blue John, and is only to be found in one spot, where, also, the supply is said to be growing scant3. We bought a number of articles, and then came homeward, still with our guide, who showed us, on the way, the Romantic Rocks. These are some crags which have been rent away and stand insulated from the hillside, affording a pathway between it and then; while the places can yet be seen where the sundered135 rocks would fit into the craggy hill if there were but a Titan strong enough to adjust them again. It is a very picturesque spot, and the price for seeing it is twopence; though in our case it was included in the four shillings which we had paid for seeing the cavern. The representative men of England are the showmen and the policemen; both very good people in their way.
Returning to the hotel, J——- and his mother went through the village to the river, near the railway, where J——- set himself to fishing, and caught three minnows. I followed, after a while, to fetch them back, and we called into one or two of the many shops in the village, which have articles manufactured of the spar for sale. Some of these are nothing short of magnificent. There was an inlaid table, valued at sixty guineas, and a splendid ornament17 for any drawing-room; another, inlaid with the squares of a chess-board. We heard of a table in the possession of the Marquis of Westminster, the value of which is three hundred guineas. It would be easy and pleasant to spend a great deal of money in such things as we saw there; but all our purchases in Matlock did not amount to more than twenty shillings, invested in brooches, shawl-pins, little vases and toys, which will be valuable to us as memorials on the other side of the water. After this, we visited a petrifying136 cave, of which there are several hereabouts. The process of petrifaction137 requires some months, or perhaps a year or two, varying with the size of the article to be operated upon. The articles are placed in the cave, under the drippings from the roof, and a hard deposit is formed upon them, and sometimes, as in the case of a bird's-nest, causes a curious result,— every straw and hair being immortalized and stiffened138 into stone. A horse's head was in process of petrifaction; and J——- bought a broken eggshell for a penny, though larger articles are expensive. The process would appear to be entirely superficial,—a mere85 crust on the outside of things,—but we saw some specimens of petrified139 oak, where the stony140 substance seemed to be intimately incorporated with the wood, and to have really changed it into stone. These specimens were immensely ponderous47, and capable of a high polish, which brought out beautiful streaks141 and shades.
One might spend a very pleasant summer in Matlock, and I think there can be no more beautiful place in the world; but we left it that afternoon, and railed to Manchester, where we arrived between ten and eleven at night. The next day I left S——- to go to the Art Exhibition, and took J——- with me to Liverpool, where I had an engagement that admitted of no delay. Thus ended our tour, in which we had seen but a little bit of England, yet rich with variety and interest. What a wonderful land! It is our forefathers142' land; our land, for I will not give up such a precious inheritance. We are now back again in flat and sandy Southport, which, during the past week, has been thronged with Whitsuntide people, who crowd the streets, and pass to and fro along the promenade143, with a universal and monotonous air of nothing to do, and very little enjoyment144. It is a pity that poor folks cannot employ their little hour of leisure to better advantage, in a country where the soil is so veined with gold.
These are delightfully145 long days. Last night, at half past nine, I could read with perfect ease in parts of the room remote from the window; and at nearly half past eleven there was a broad sheet of daylight in the west, gleaming brightly over the plashy sands. I question whether there be any total night at this season.
June 21st.—Southport, I presume, is now in its most vivid aspect; there being a multitude of visitors here, principally of the middling classes, and a frequent crowd, whom I take to be working-people from Manchester and other factory towns. It is the strangest place to come to for the pleasures of the sea, of which we scarcely have a glimpse from month's end to mouth's end, nor any fresh, exhilarating breath from it, but a lazy, languid atmosphere, brooding over the waste of sands; or even if there be a sulky and bitter wind blowing along the promenade, it still brings no salt elixir146. I never was more weary of a place in all my life, and never felt such a disinterested147 pity as for the people who come here for pleasure. Nevertheless, the town has its amusements; in the first place, the daylong and perennial148 one of donkey-riding along the sands, large parties of men and girls pottering along together; the Flying Dutchman trundles hither and thither149 when there is breeze enough; an arch cry-man sets up his targets on the beach; the bathing-houses stand by scores and fifties along the shore, and likewise on the banks of the Ribble, a mile seaward; the hotels have their billiard-rooms; there is a theatre every evening; from morning till night comes a succession of organ-grinders, playing interminably under your window; and a man with a bassoon and a monkey, who takes your pennies and pulls off his cap in acknowledgment; and wandering minstrels, with guitar and voice; and a Highland150 bagpipe151, squealing152 out a tangled153 skein of discord154, together with a Highland maid, who dances a hornpipe; and Punch and Judy,—in a word, we have specimens of all manner of vagrancy155 that infests156 England. In these long days, and long and pleasant ones, the promenade is at its liveliest about nine o'clock, which is but just after sundown; and our little R——- finds it difficult to go to sleep amid so much music as comes to her ears from bassoon, bagpipe, organ, guitar, and now and then a military band. One feature of the place is the sick and infirm people, whom we see dragged along in bath-chairs, or dragging their own limbs languidly; or sitting on benches; or meeting in the streets, and making acquaintance on the strength of mutual157 maladies,—pale men leaning on their ruddy wives; cripples, three or four together in a ring, and planting their crutches158 in the centre. I don't remember whether I have ever mentioned among the notabilities of Southport the Town Crier,—a meek-looking old man, who sings out his messages in a most doleful tone, as if he took his title in a literal sense, and were really going to cry, or crying in the world's behalf; one other stroller, a foreigner with a dog, shaggy round the head and shoulders, and closely shaven behind. The poor little beast jumped through hoops160, ran about on two legs of one side, danced on its hind159 legs, or on its fore21 paws, with its hind ones straight up in the air,—all the time keeping a watch on his master's eye, and evidently mindful of many a beating.
June 25th.—The war-steamer Niagara came up the Mersey a few days since, and day before yesterday Captain Hudson called at my office,—a somewhat meagre, elderly gentleman, of simple and hearty161 manners and address, having his purser, Mr. Eldredge, with him, who, I think, rather prides himself upon having a Napoleonic profile. The captain is an old acquaintance of Mrs. Blodgett, and has cone162 ashore163 principally with a view to calling on her; so, after we had left our cards for the Mayor, I showed these naval164 gentlemen the way to her house. Mrs. Blodgett and Miss W——— were prodigiously165 glad to see him and they all three began to talk of old times and old acquaintances; for when Mrs. Blodgett was a rich lady at Gibraltar, she used to have the whole navy-list at her table,—young midshipmen and lieutenants166 then perhaps, but old, gouty, paralytic167 commodores now, if still even partly alive. It was arranged that Mrs. Blodgett, with as many of the ladies of her family as she chose to bring, should accompany me on my official visit to the ship the next day; and yesterday we went accordingly, Mrs. Blodgett, Miss W———, and six or seven American captains' wives, their husbands following in another boat. I know too little of ships to describe one, or even to feel any great interest in the details of this or of any other ship; but the nautical168 people seemed to see much to admire. She lay in the Sloyne, in the midst of a broad basin of the Mersey, with a pleasant landscape of green England, now warm with summer sunshine, on either side, with churches and villa4 residences, and suburban and rural beauty. The officers of the ship are gentlemanly men, externally very well mannered, although not polished and refined to any considerable extent. At least, I have not found naval men so, in general; but still it is pleasant to see Americans who are not stirred by such motives169 as usually interest our countrymen,—no hope nor desire of growing rich, but planting their claims to respectability on other grounds, and therefore acquiring a certain nobleness, whether it be inherent in their nature or no. It always seems to me they look down upon civilians170 with quiet and not ill-natured scorn, which one has the choice of smiling or being provoked at. It is not a true life which they lead, but shallow and aimless; and unsatisfactory it must be to the better minds among them; nor do they appear to profit by what would seem the advantages presented to them in their world-wide, though not world-deep experience. They get to be very clannish171 too.
After seeing the ship, we landed, all of us, ladies and captain, and went to the gardens of the Rock Ferry Hotel, where J——- and I stayed behind the rest.
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1
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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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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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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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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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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gargoyles
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| n.怪兽状滴水嘴( gargoyle的名词复数 ) | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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canopies
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| （宝座或床等上面的）华盖( canopy的名词复数 )； （飞行器上的）座舱罩； 任何悬于上空的覆盖物； 森林中天棚似的树荫 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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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27
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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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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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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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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larches
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| n.落叶松（木材）( larch的名词复数 ) | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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38
evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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40
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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41
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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42
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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43
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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45
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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ponderously
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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48
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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49
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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50
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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51
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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52
inscribe
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| v.刻；雕；题写；牢记 | |
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53
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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54
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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55
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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56
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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57
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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58
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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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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60
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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61
picturesqueness
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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63
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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64
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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68
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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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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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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73
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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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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81
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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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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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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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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landladies
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| n.女房东，女店主，女地主( landlady的名词复数 ) | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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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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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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101
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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104
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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107
ruggedness
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| 险峻，粗野； 耐久性； 坚固性 | |
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108
declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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109
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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110
grottos
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| n.（吸引人的）岩洞，洞穴，（人挖的）洞室( grotto的名词复数 ) | |
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111
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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113
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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114
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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115
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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116
meander
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| n.河流的曲折，漫步，迂回旅行；v.缓慢而弯曲地流动，漫谈 | |
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117
zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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118
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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119
disappearances
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| n.消失( disappearance的名词复数 )；丢失；失踪；失踪案 | |
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120
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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121
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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122
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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123
cataracts
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| n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 )；白内障 | |
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124
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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125
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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126
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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127
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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128
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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129
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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130
burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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131
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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132
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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133
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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134
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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135
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
petrifying
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| v.吓呆，使麻木( petrify的现在分词 )；使吓呆，使惊呆；僵化 | |
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137
petrifaction
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| n.石化，化石；吓呆；惊呆 | |
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138
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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139
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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140
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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141
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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142
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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143
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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144
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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145
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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146
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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147
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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148
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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149
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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150
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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151
bagpipe
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| n.风笛 | |
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152
squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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153
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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154
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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155
vagrancy
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| （说话的，思想的）游移不定； 漂泊； 流浪； 离题 | |
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156
infests
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| n.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的名词复数 )；遍布于v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的第三人称单数 )；遍布于 | |
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157
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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158
crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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159
hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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160
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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161
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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162
cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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163
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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164
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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165
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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166
lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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167
paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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168
nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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169
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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170
civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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171
clannish
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| adj.排他的，门户之见的 | |
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