Our lodgings are in close vicinity to the British Museum, which is the great advantage we took them for.
I felt restless and uncomfortable, and soon strolled forth8, without any definite object, and walked as far as Charing9 Cross. Very dull and dreary10 the city looked, and not in the least lively, even where the throng11 was thickest and most brisk. As I trudged12 along, my reflection was, that never was there a dingier14, uglier, less picturesque15 city than London; and that it is really wonderful that so much brick and stone, for centuries together, should have been built up with so poor a result. Yet these old names of the city—Fleet Street, Ludgate Hill, the Strand16-used to throw a glory over these homely17 precincts when I first saw them, and still do so in a less degree. Where Farrington Street opens upon Fleet Street, moreover, I had a glimpse of St. Paul's, along Ludgate Street, in the gathering18 dimness, and felt as if I saw an old friend. In that neighborhood—speaking of old friends—I met Mr. Parker of Boston, who told me sad news of a friend whom I love as much as if I had known him for a lifetime, though he is, indeed, but of two or three years' standing19. He said that my friend's bankruptcy20 is in to-day's Gazette. Of all men on earth, I had rather this misfortune should have happened to any other; but I hope and think he has sturdiness and buoyancy enough to rise up beneath it. I cannot conceive of his face otherwise than with a glow on it, like that of the sun at noonday.
Before I reached our lodgings, the dusk settled into the streets, and a mist bedewed and bedamped me, and I went astray, as is usual with me, and had to inquire my way; indeed, except in the principal thoroughfares, London is so miserably21 lighted that it is impossible to recognize one's whereabouts. On my arrival I found our parlor22 looking cheerful with a brisk fire; . . . . but the first day or two in new lodgings is at best an uncomfortable time. Fanny has just come in with more unhappy news about ———. Pray Heaven it may not be true! . . . . Troubles are a sociable23 brotherhood24; they love to come hand in hand, or sometimes, even, to come side by side, with long looked-for and hoped-for good fortune. . . .
November 11th.—This morning we all went to the British Museum, always a most wearisome and depressing task to me. I strolled through the lower rooms with a good degree of interest, looking at the antique sculptures, some of which were doubtless grand and beautiful in their day. . . . The Egyptian remains25 are, on the whole, the more satisfactory; for, though inconceivably ugly, they are at least miracles of size and ponderosity26,—for example, a hand and arm of polished granite27, as much as ten feet in length. The upper rooms, containing millions of specimens28 of Natural History, in all departments, really made my heart ache with a pain and woe29 that I have never felt anywhere but in the British Museum, and I hurried through them as rapidly as I could persuade J——- to follow me. We had left the rest of the party still intent on the Grecian sculptures; and though J——- was much interested in the vast collection of shells, he chose to quit the Museum with me in the prospect30 of a stroll about London. He seems to have my own passion for thronged31 streets, and the utmost bustle32 of human life.
We went first to the railway station, in quest of our luggage, which we found. Then we made a pretty straight course down to Holborn, and through Newgate Street, stopping a few moments to look through the iron fence at the Christ's Hospital boys, in their long blue coats and yellow petticoats and stockings. It was between twelve and one o'clock; and I suppose this was their hour of play, for they were running about the enclosed space, chasing and overthrowing33 one another, without their caps, with their yellow petticoats tucked up, and all in immense activity and enjoyment34. They were eminently35 a healthy and handsome set of boys.
Then we went into Cheapside, where I called at Mr. Bennett's shop, to inquire what are the facts about ———. When I mentioned his name, Mr. Bennett shook his head and expressed great sorrow; but, on further talk, I found that he referred only to the failure, and had heard nothing about the other rumor36. It cannot, therefore, be true; for Bennett lives in his neighborhood, and could not have remained ignorant of such a calamity37. There must be some mistake; none, however, in regard to the failure, it having been announced in the Times.
From Bennett's shop—which is so near the steeple of Bow Church that it would tumble upon it if it fell over—we strolled still eastward38, aiming at London Bridge; but missed it, and bewildered ourselves among many dingy39 and frowzy40 streets and lanes. I bore towards the right, however, knowing that that course must ultimately bring me to the Thames; and at last I saw before me ramparts, towers, circular and square, with battlemented summits, large sweeps and curves of fortification, as well as straight and massive walls and chimneys behind them (all a great confusion—to my eye), of ancient and more modern structure, and four loftier turrets41 rising in the midst; the whole great space surrounded by a broad, dry moat, which now seemed to be used as an ornamental42 walk, bordered partly with trees. This was the Tower; but seen from a different and more picturesque point of view than I have heretofore gained of it. Being so convenient for a visit, I determined43 to go in. At the outer gate, which is not a part of the fortification, a sentinel walks to and fro, besides whom there was a warder, in the rich old costume of Henry VIII's time, looking very gorgeous indeed,—as much so as scarlet44 and gold can make him.
As J——- and I were not going to look at the Jewel-room, we loitered about in the open space, before the White Tower, while the tall, slender, white-haired, gentlemanly warder led the rest of the party into that apartment. We found what one might take for a square in a town, with gabled houses lifting their peaks on one side, and various edifices46 enclosing the other sides, and the great White Tower,—now more black than white,—rising venerable, and rather picturesque than otherwise, the most prominent object in the scene. I have no plan nor available idea of it whatever in my mind, but it seems really to be a town within itself, with streets, avenues, and all that pertains47 to human life. There were soldiers going through their exercise in the open space, and along at the base of the White Tower lay a great many cannon49 and mortars50, some of which were of Turkish manufacture, and immensely long and ponderous51. Others, likewise of mighty52 size, had once belonged to the famous ship Great Harry53, and had lain for ages under the sea. Others were East-Indian. Several were beautiful specimens of workmanship. The mortars—some so large that a fair-sized man might easily be rammed54 into them—held their great mouths slanting55 upward to the sky, and mostly contained a quantity of rain-water. While we were looking at these warlike toys,—for I suppose not one of them will ever thunder in earnest again,—the warder reappeared with his ladies, and, leading us all to a certain part of the open space, he struck his foot on the small stones with which it is paved, and told us that we were standing on the spot where Anne Boleyn and Catharine Parr were beheaded. It is not exactly in the centre of the square, but on a line with one of the angles of the White Tower. I forgot to mention that the middle of the open space is occupied by a marble statue of Wellington, which appeared to me very poor and laboriously56 spirited.
Lastly, the warder led us under the Bloody57 Tower, and by the side of the Wakefield Tower, and showed us the Traitor's Gate, which is now closed up, so as to afford no access to the Thames. No; we first visited the Beauchamp Tower, famous as the prison of many historical personages. Some of its former occupants have left their initials or names, and inscriptions58 of piety60 and patience, cut deep into the freestone of the walls, together with devices—as a crucifix, for instance—neatly and skilfully61 done. This room has a long, deep fireplace; it is chiefly lighted by a large window, which I fancy must have been made in modern times; but there are four narrow apertures62, throwing in a little light through deep alcoves63 in the thickness of the octagon wall. One would expect such a room to be picturesque; but it is really not of striking aspect, being low, with a plastered ceiling,—the beams just showing through the plaster,—a boarded floor, and the walls being washed over with a buff color. A warder sat within a railing, by the great window, with sixpenny books to sell, containing transcripts64 of the inscriptions on the walls.
We now left the Tower, and made our way deviously65 westward66, passing St. Paul's, which looked magnificently and beautifully, so huge and dusky as it was, with here and there a space on its vast form where the original whiteness of the marble came out like a streak67 of moonshine amid the blackness with which time has made it grander than it was in its newness. It is a most noble edifice45; and I delight, too, in the statues that crown some of its heights, and in the wreaths of sculpture which are hung around it.
November 12th.—This morning began with such fog, that at the window of my chamber68, lighted only from a small court-yard, enclosed by high, dingy walls, I could hardly see to dress. It kept alternately darkening, and then brightening a little, and darkening again, so much that we could but just discern the opposite houses; but at eleven or thereabouts it grew so much clearer that we resolved to venture out. Our plan for the day was to go in the first place to Westminster Abbey; and to the National Gallery, if we should find time. . . . The fog darkened again as we went down Regent Street, and the Duke of York's Column was but barely visible, looming69 vaguely70 before us; nor, from Pall71 Mall, was Nelson's Pillar much more distinct, though methought his statue stood aloft in a somewhat clearer atmosphere than ours. Passing Whitehall, however, we could scarcely see Inigo Jones's Banqueting-House, on the other side of the street; and the towers and turrets of the new Houses of Parliament were all but invisible, as was the Abbey itself; so that we really were in some doubt whither we were going. We found our way to Poets' Corner, however, and entered those holy precincts, which looked very dusky and grim in the smoky light. . . . I was strongly impressed with the perception that very commonplace people compose the great bulk of society in the home of the illustrious dead. It is wonderful how few names there are that one cares anything about a hundred years after their departure; but perhaps each generation acts in good faith in canonizing its own men. . . . But the fame of the buried person does not make the marble live,—the marble keeps merely a cold and sad memory of a man who would else be forgotten. No man who needs a monument ever ought to have one.
The painted windows of the Abbey, though mostly modern, are exceedingly rich and beautiful; and I do think that human art has invented no other such magnificent method of adornment72 as this.
Our final visit to-day was to the National Gallery, where I came to the conclusion that Murillo's St. John was the most lovely picture I have ever seen, and that there never was a painter who has really made the world richer, except Murillo.
November 12th.—This morning we issued forth, and found the atmosphere chill and almost frosty, tingling73 upon our cheeks. . . . The gateway74 of Somerset House attracted us, and we walked round its spacious76 quadrangle, encountering many government clerks hurrying to their various offices. At least, I presumed them to be so. This is certainly a handsome square of buildings, with its Grecian facades77 and pillars, and its sculptured bas-reliefs, and the group of statuary in the midst of the court. Besides the part of the edifice that rises above ground, there appear to be two subterranean78 stories below the surface. From Somerset House we pursued our way through Temple Bar, but missed it, and therefore entered by the passage from what was formerly79 Alsatia, but which now seems to be a very respectable and humdrum80 part of London. We came immediately to the Temple Gardens, which we walked quite round. The grass is still green, but the trees are leafless, and had an aspect of not being very robust81, even at more genial82 seasons of the year. There were, however, large quantities of brilliant chrysanthemums83, golden, and of all hues, blooming gorgeously all about the borders; and several gardeners were at work, tending these flowers, and sheltering them from the weather. I noticed no roses, nor even rose-bushes, in the spot where the factions84 of York and Lancaster plucked their two hostile flowers.
Leaving these grounds, we went to the Hall of the Middle Temple, where we knocked at the portal, and, finding it not fastened, thrust it open. A boy appeared within, and the porter or keeper, at a distance, along the inner passage, called to us to enter; and, opening the door of the great hall, left us to view it till he should be at leisure to attend to us. Truly it is a most magnificent apartment; very lofty,—so lofty, indeed, that the antique oak roof was quite hidden, as regarded all its details, in the sombre gloom that brooded under its rafters. The hall was lighted by four great windows, I think, on each of the two sides, descending85 half-way from the ceiling to the floor, leaving all beneath enclosed by oaken panelling, which, on three sides, was carved with escutcheons of such members of the society as have held the office of reader. There is likewise, in a large recess86 or transept, a great window, occupying the full height of the hall, and splendidly emblazoned with the arms of the Templars who have attained87 to the dignity of Chief Justices. The other windows are pictured, in like manner, with coats of arms of local dignitaries connected with the Temple; and besides all these there are arched lights, high towards the roof, at either end full of richly and chastely89 colored glass, and all the illumination that the great hall had come through these glorious panes90, and they seemed the richer for the sombreness in which we stood. I cannot describe, or even intimate, the effect of this transparent91 glory, glowing down upon us in that gloomy depth of the hall. The screen at the lower end was of carved oak, very dark and highly polished, and as old as Queen Elizabeth's time. The keeper told us that the story of the Armada was said to be represented in these carvings92, but in the imperfect light we could trace nothing of it out. Along the length of the apartment were set two oaken tables for the students of law to dine upon; and on the dais, at the upper end, there was a cross-table for the big-wigs of the society; the latter being provided with comfortable chairs, and the former with oaken benches. From a notification, posted near the door, I gathered that the cost of dinners is two shillings to each gentleman, including, as the attendant told me, ale and wine. I am reluctant to leave this hall without expressing how grave, how grand, how sombre, and how magnificent I feel it to be. As regards historical association, it was a favorite dancing-hall of Queen Elizabeth, and Sir Christopher Hatton danced himself into her good graces here.
We next went to the Temple Church, and, finding the door ajar, made free to enter beneath its Norman arches, which admitted us into a circular vestibule, very ancient and beautiful. In the body of the church beyond we saw a boy sitting, but nobody either forbade or invited our entrance. On the floor of the vestibule lay about half a score of Templars,—the representatives of the warlike priests who built this church and formerly held these precincts,—all in chain armor, grasping their swords, and with their shields beside them. Except two or three, they lay cross-legged, in token that they had really fought for the Holy Sepulchre. I think I have seen nowhere else such well-preserved monumental knights94 as these. We proceeded into the interior of the church, and were greatly impressed with its wonderful beauty,—the roof springing, as it were, in a harmonious95 and accordant fountain, out of the clustered pillars that support its groined arches; and these pillars, immense as they are, are polished like so many gems96. They are of Purbeck marble, and, if I mistake not, had been covered with plaster for ages until latterly redeemed97 and beautified anew. But the glory of the church is its old painted windows; and, positively98, those great spaces over the chancel appeared to be set with all manner of precious stones,—or it was as if the many-colored radiance of heaven were breaking upon us,—or as if we saw the wings of angels, storied over with richly tinted99 pictures of holy things. But it is idle to talk of this marvellous adornment; it is to be seen and wondered at, not written about. Before we left the church, the porter made his appearance, in time to receive his fee,— which somebody, indeed, is always ready to stretch out his hand for. And so ended our visit to the Temple, which, by the by, though close to the midmost bustle of London, is as quiet as if it were always Sunday there.
We now went to St. Paul's. U—— and Miss Shepard ascended101 to the Whispering Gallery, and we, sitting under the dome102, at the base of one of the pillars, saw them far above us, looking very indistinct, for those misty103 upper-depths seemed almost to be hung with clouds. This cathedral, I think, does not profit by gloom, but requires cheerful sunshine to show it to the best advantage. The statues and sculptures in St. Paul's are mostly covered with years of dust, and look thereby104 very grim and ugly; but there are few memories there from which I should care to brush away the dust, they being, in nine cases out of ten, naval105 and military heroes of second or third class merit. I really remember no literary celebrity106 admitted solely107 on that account, except Dr. Johnson. The Crimean war has supplied two or three monuments, chiefly mural tablets; and doubtless more of the same excrescences will yet come out upon the walls. One thing that I newly noticed was the beautiful shape of the great, covered marble vase that serves for a font.
From St. Paul's we went down Cheapside, and, turning into King Street, visited Guildhall, which we found in process of decoration for a public ball, to take place next week. It looked rather gewgawish thus gorgeous, being hung with flags of all nations, and adorned108 with military trophies109; and the scene was repeated by a range of looking-glasses at one end of the room. The execrably painted windows really shocked us by their vulgar glare, after those of the Temple Hall and Church; yet, a few years ago, I might very likely have thought them beautiful. Our own national banner, I must remember to say, was hanging in Guildhall, but with only ten stars, and an insufficient110 number of stripes.
November 15th.—Yesterday morning we went to London Bridge and along Lower Thames Street, and quickly found ourselves in Billingsgate Market, —a dirty, evil-smelling, crowded precinct, thronged with people carrying fish on their heads, and lined with fish-shops and fish-stalls, and pervaded111 with a fishy112 odor. The footwalk was narrow,—as indeed was the whole street,—and filthy113 to travel upon; and we had to elbow our way among rough men and slatternly women, and to guard our heads from the contact of fish-trays; very ugly, grimy, and misty, moreover, is Billingsgate Market, and though we heard none of the foul114 language of which it is supposed to be the fountain-head, yet it has its own peculiarities115 of behavior. For instance, U—— tells me that one man, staring at her and her governess as they passed, cried out, "What beauties!"—another, looking under her veil, greeted her with, "Good morning, my love!" We were in advance, and heard nothing of these civilities. Struggling through this fishy purgatory116, we caught sight of the Tower, as we drew near the end of the street; and I put all my party under charge of one of the Trump117 Cards, not being myself inclined to make the rounds of the small part of the fortress118 that is shown, so soon after my late visit.
When they departed with the warder, I set out by myself to wander about the exterior119 of the Tower, looking with interest at what I suppose to be Tower Hill,—a slight elevation120 of the large open space into which Great Tower Street opens; though, perhaps, what is now called Trinity Square may have been a part of Tower Hill, and possibly the precise spot where the executions took place. Keeping to the right, round the Tower, I found the moat quite surrounded by a fence of iron rails, excluding me from a pleasant gravel-path, among flowers and shrubbery, on the inside, where I could see nursery-maids giving children their airings. Possibly these may have been the privileged inhabitants of the Tower, which certainly might contain the population of a large village. The aspect of the fortress has so much that is new and modern about it that it can hardly be called picturesque, and yet it seems unfair to withhold121 that epithet122 from such a collection of gray ramparts. I followed the iron fence quite round the outer grounds, till it approached the Thames, and in this direction the moat and the pleasure-ground terminate in a narrow graveyard123, which extends beneath the walls, and looks neglected and shaggy with long grass. It appeared to contain graves enough, but only a few tombstones, of which I could read the inscription59 of but one; it commemorated124 a Mr. George Gibson, a person of no note, nor apparently125 connected with the place. St. Katharine's Dock lies along the Thames, in this vicinity; and while on one side of me were the Tower, the quiet gravel-path, and the shaggy graveyard, on the other were draymen and their horses, dock-laborers, sailors, empty puncheons, and a miscellaneous spectacle of life,—including organ-grinders, men roasting chestnuts126 over small ovens on the sidewalk, boys and women with boards or wheelbarrows of apples, oyster-stands, besides pedlers of small wares127, dirty children at play, and other figures and things that a Dutch painter would seize upon.
I went a little way into St. Katharine's Dock, and found it crowded with great ships; then, returning, I strolled along the range of shops that front towards this side of the Tower. They have all something to do with ships, sailors, and commerce; being for the sale of ships' stores, nautical128 instruments, arms, clothing, together with a tavern129 and grog-shop at every other door; bookstalls, too, covered with cheap novels and song-books; cigar-shops in great numbers; and everywhere were sailors, and here and there a soldier, and children at the doorsteps, and women showing themselves at the doors or windows of their domiciles. These latter figures, however, pertain48 rather to the street up which I walked, penetrating130 into the interior of this region, which, I think, is Blackwall—no, I forget what its name is. At all events, it has an ancient and most grimy and rough look, with its old gabled houses, each of them the seat of some petty trade and business in its basement story. Among these I saw one house with three or four peaks along its front,—a second story projecting over the basement, and the whole clapboarded over. . . . There was a butcher's stall in the lower story, with a front open to the street, in the ancient fashion, which seems to be retained only by butchers' shops. This part of London having escaped the Great Fire, I suppose there may be many relics131 of architectural antiquity132 hereabouts.
At the end of an hour I went back to the Refreshment-room, within the outer gate of the Tower, where the rest of us shortly appeared. We now returned westward by way of Great Tower Street, Eastcheap, and Cannon Street, and, entering St. Paul's, sat down beneath the misty dome to rest ourselves. The muffled133 roar of the city, as we heard it there, is very soothing134, and keeps one listening to it, somewhat as the flow of a river keeps us looking at it. It is a grand and quiet sound; and, ever and anon, a distant door slammed somewhere in the cathedral, and reverberated135 long and heavily, like the roll of thunder or the boom of cannon. Every noise that is loud enough to be heard in so vast an edifice melts into the great quietude. The interior looked very sombre, and the dome hung over us like a cloudy sky. I wish it were possible to pass directly from St. Paul's into York Minster, or from the latter into the former; that is, if one's mind could manage to stagger under both in the same day. There is no other way of judging of their comparative effect.
Under the influence of that grand lullaby,—the roar of the city,—we sat for some time after we were sufficiently136 rested; but at last plunged137 forth again, and went up Newgate Street, pausing to look through the iron railings of Christ's Hospital. The boys, however, were not at play; so we went onward138, in quest of Smithfield, and on our way had a greeting from Mr. Silsbee, a gentleman of our own native town. Parting with him, we found Smithfield, which is still occupied with pens for cattle, though I believe it has ceased to be a cattle-market. Except it be St. Bartholomew's hospital on one side, there is nothing interesting in this ugly square; though, no doubt, a few feet under the pavement there are bones and ashes as precious as anything of the kind on earth. I wonder when men will begin to erect139 monuments to human error; hitherto their pillars and statues have only been for the sake of glorification140. But, after all, the present fashion may be the better and wholesomer. . . .
November 16th.—Mr. Silsbee called yesterday, and talked about matters of art, in which he is deeply interested, and which he has had good opportunities of becoming acquainted with, during three years' travel on the Continent. He is a man of great intelligence and true feeling, and absolutely brims over with ideas,—his conversation flowing in a constant stream, which it appears to be no trouble whatever to him to keep up. . . . He took his leave after a long call, and left with us a manuscript, describing a visit to Berlin, which I read to my wife in the evening. It was well worth reading. He made an engagement to go with us to the Crystal Palace, and came rather for that purpose this morning.
We drove to the London Bridge station, where we bought return tickets that entitled us to admission to the Palace, as well as conveyance141 thither142, for half a crown apiece. On our arrival we entered by the garden front, thus gaining a fine view of the ornamental grounds, with their fountains and stately pathways, bordered with statues; and of the edifice itself, so vast and fairy-like, looking as if it were a bubble, and might vanish at a touch. There is as little beauty in the architecture of the Crystal Palace, however, as was possible to be with such gigantic use of such a material. No doubt, an architectural order of which we have as yet little or no idea is to be developed from the use of glass as a building-material, instead of brick and stone. It will have its own rules and its own results; but, meanwhile, even the present Palace is positively a very beautiful object. On entering we found the atmosphere chill and comfortless,—more so, it seemed to me, than the open air itself. It was not a genial day; though now and then the sun gleamed out, and once caused fine effects in the glasswork of a crystal fountain in one of the courts.
We were under Mr. Silshee's guidance for the day, . . . . and first we looked at the sculpture, which is composed chiefly of casts or copies of the most famous statues of all ages, and likewise of those crumbs143 and little fragments which have fallen from Time's jaw,—and half-picked bones, as it were, that have been gathered up from spots where he has feasted full,—torsos, heads and broken limbs, some of them half worn away, as if they had been rolled over and over in the sea. I saw nothing in the sculptural way, either modern or antique, that impressed me so much as a statue of a nude144 mother by a French artist. In a sitting posture145, with one knee over the other, she was clasping her highest knee with both hands; and in the hollow cradle thus formed by her arms lay two sweet little babies, as snug146 and close to her heart as if they had not yet been born,—two little love-blossoms,—and the mother encircling them and pervading147 them with love. But an infinite pathos148 and strange terror are given to this beautiful group by some faint bas-reliefs on the pedestal, indicating that the happy mother is Eve, and Cain and Abel the two innocent babes.
Then we went to the Alhambra, which looks like an enchanted149 palace. If it had been a sunny day, I should have enjoyed it more; but it was miserable150 to shiver and shake in the Court of the Lions, and in those chambers151 which were contrived152 as places of refuge from a fervid153 temperature. Furthermore, it is not quite agreeable to see such clever specimens of stage decoration; they are so very good that it gets to be past a joke, without becoming actual earnest. I had not a similar feeling in respect to the reproduction of mediaeval statues, arches, doorways154, all brilliantly colored as in the days of their first glory; yet I do not know but that the first is as little objectionable as the last. Certainly, in both cases, scenes and objects of a past age are here more vividly155 presented to the dullest mind than without such material facilities they could possibly be brought before the most powerful imagination. Truly, the Crystal Palace, in all its departments, offers wonderful means of education. I marvel100 what will come of it. Among the things that I admired most was Benvenuto Cellini's statue of Perseus holding the head of Medusa, and standing over her headless and still writhing156 body, out of which, at the severed157 neck, gushed158 a vast exuberance159 of snakes. Likewise, a sitting statue, by Michel Angelo, of one of the Medici, full of dignity and grace and reposeful160 might. Also the bronze gate of a baptistery in Florence, carved all over with relieves of Scripture161 subjects, executed in the most lifelike and expressive162 manner. The cast itself was a miracle of art. I should have taken it for the genuine original bronze.
We then wandered into the House of Diomed, which seemed to me a dismal163 abode164, affording no possibility of comfort. We sat down in one of the rooms, on an iron bench, very cold.
It being by this time two o'clock, we went to the Refreshment-room and lunched; and before we had finished our repast, my wife discovered that she had lost her sable165 tippet, which she had been carrying on her arm. Mr. Silsbee most kindly166 and obligingly immediately went in quest of it, . . . . but to no purpose. . . .
Upon entering the Tropical Saloon, we found a most welcome and delightful167 change of temperature among those gigantic leaves of banyan-trees, and the broad expanse of water-plants, floating on lakes, and spacious aviaries168, where birds of brilliant plumage sported and sang amid such foliage as they knew at home. Howbeit, the atmosphere was a little faint and sickish, perhaps owing to the odor of the half-tepid water. The most remarkable169 object here was the trunk of a tree, huge beyond imagination, —a pine-tree from California. It was only the stripped-off bark, however, which had been conveyed hither in segments, and put together again beyond the height of the palace roof; and the hollow interior circle of the tree was large enough to contain fifty people, I should think. We entered and sat down in all the remoteness from one another that is attainable170 in a good-sized drawing-room. We then ascended the gallery to get a view of this vast tree from a more elevated position, and found it looked even bigger from above. Then we loitered slowly along the gallery as far as it extended, and afterwards descended171 into the nave172; for it was getting dusk, and a horn had sounded, and a bell rung a warning to such as delayed in the remote regions of the building. Mr. Silsbee again most kindly went in quest of the sables173, but still without success. . . . I have not much enjoyed the Crystal Palace, but think it a great and admirable achievement.
November 19th.—On Tuesday evening Mr. Silsbee came to read some letters which he has written to his friends, chiefly giving his observations on Art, together with descriptions of Venice and other cities on the Continent. They were very good, and indicate much sensibility and talent. After the reading we had a little oyster-supper and wine.
I had written a note to ———, and received an answer, indicating that he was much weighed down by his financial misfortune. . . . However, he desired me to come and see him; so yesterday morning I wended my way down into the city, and after various reluctant circumlocutions arrived at his house. The interior looked confused and dismal.
It seems to me nobody else runs such risks as a man of business, because he risks everything. Every other man, into whatever depth of poverty he may sink, has still something left, be he author, scholar, handicraftman, or what not; the merchant has nothing.
We parted with a long and strong grasp of the hand, and ——— promised to come and see us soon. . . .
On my way home I called at Truebner's in Pater Noster Row. . . . I waited a few minutes, he being busy with a tall, muscular, English-built man, who, after he had taken leave, Truebner told me was Charles Reade. I once met him at an evening party, but should have been glad to meet him again, now that I appreciate him so much better after reading Never too Late to Mend.
December 6th.—All these days, since my last date, have been marked by nothing very well worthy of detail and description. I have walked the streets a great deal in the dull November days, and always take a certain pleasure in being in the midst of human life,—as closely encompassed174 by it as it is possible to be anywhere in this world; and in that way of viewing it there is a dull and sombre enjoyment always to be had in Holborn, Fleet Street, Cheapside, and the other busiest parts of London. It is human life; it is this material world; it is a grim and heavy reality. I have never had the same sense of being surrounded by materialisms and hemmed176 in with the grossness of this earthly existence anywhere else; these broad, crowded streets are so evidently the veins177 and arteries178 of an enormous city. London is evidenced in every one of them, just as a megatherium is in each of its separate bones, even if they be small ones. Thus I never fail of a sort of self-congratulation in finding myself, for instance, passing along Ludgate Hill; but, in spite of this, it is really an ungladdened life to wander through these huge, thronged ways, over a pavement foul with mud, ground into it by a million of footsteps; jostling against people who do not seem to be individuals, but all one mass, so homogeneous is the street-walking aspect of them; the roar of vehicles pervading me,—wearisome cabs and omnibuses; everywhere the dingy brick edifices heaving themselves up, and shutting out all but a strip of sullen179 cloud, that serves London for a sky,—in short, a general impression of grime and sordidness180; and at this season always a fog scattered181 along the vista182 of streets, sometimes so densely184 as almost to spiritualize the materialism175 and make the scene resemble the other world of worldly people, gross even in ghostliness. It is strange how little splendor185 and brilliancy one sees in London,—in the city almost none, though some in the shops of Regent Street. My wife has had a season of indisposition within the last few weeks, so that my rambles186 have generally been solitary187, or with J——- only for a companion. I think my only excursion with my wife was a week ago, when we went to Lincoln's Inn Fields, which truly are almost fields right in the heart of London, and as retired188 and secluded189 as if the surrounding city were a forest, and its heavy roar were the wind among the branches. We gained admission into the noble Hall, which is modern, but built in antique style, and stately and beautiful exceedingly. I have forgotten all but the general effect, with its lofty oaken roof, its panelled walls, with the windows high above, and the great arched window at one end full of painted coats of arms, which the light glorifies190 in passing through them, as if each were the escutcheon of some illustrious personage. Thence we went to the chapel191 of Lincoln's Inn, where, on entering, we found a class of young choristers receiving instruction from their music-master, while the organ accompanied their strains. These young, clear, fresh, elastic192 voices are wonderfully beautiful; they are like those of women, yet have something more birdlike and aspiring193, more like what one conceives of the singing of angels. As for the singing of saints and blessed spirits that have once been human, it never can resemble that of these young voices; for no duration of heavenly enjoyments194 will ever quite take the mortal sadness out of it.
In this chapel we saw some painted windows of the time of James I., a period much subsequent, to the age when painted glass was in its glory; but the pictures of Scriptural people in these windows were certainly very fine,—the figures being as large as life, and the faces having much expression. The sunshine came in through some of them, and produced a beautiful effect, almost as if the painted forms were the glorified195 spirits of those holy personages.
After leaving Lincoln's Inn, we looked at Gray's Inn, which is a great, quiet domain196, quadrangle beyond quadrangle, close beside Holborn, and a large space of greensward enclosed within it. It is very strange to find so much of ancient quietude right in the monster city's very jaws197, which yet the monster shall not eat up,—right in its very belly198, indeed, which yet, in all these ages, it shall not digest and convert into the same substance as the rest of its bustling199 streets. Nothing else in London is so like the effect of a spell, as to pass under one of these archways, and find yourself transported from the jumble200, mob, tumult201, uproar202, as of an age of week-days condensed into the present hour, into what seems an eternal sabbath. Thence we went into Staple203 Inn, I think it was,—which has a front upon Holborn of four or five ancient gables in a row, and a low arch under the impending204 story, admitting you into a paved quadrangle, beyond which you have the vista of another. I do not understand that the residences and chambers in these Inns of Court are now exclusively let to lawyers; though such inhabitants certainly seem to preponderate205 there.
Since then J——- and I walked down into the Strand, and found ourselves unexpectedly mixed up with a crowd that grew denser206 as we approached Charing Cross, and became absolutely impermeable207 when we attempted to make our way to Whitehall. The wicket in the gate of Northumberland House, by the by, was open, and gave me a glimpse of the front of the edifice within,—a very partial glimpse, however, and that obstructed208 by the solid person of a footman, who, with some women, were passing out from within. The crowd was a real English crowd, perfectly209 undemonstrative, and entirely210 decorous, being composed mostly of well-dressed people, and largely of women. The cause of the assemblage was the opening of Parliament by the Queen, but we were too late for any chance of seeing her Majesty211. However, we extricated212 ourselves from the multitude, and, going along Pall Mall, got into the Park by the steps at the foot of the Duke of York's Column, and thence went to the Whitehall Gateway, outside of which we found the Horse Guards drawn213 up,—a regiment214 of black horses and burnished215 cuirasses. On our way thither an open carriage came through the gateway into the Park, conveying two ladies in court dresses; and another splendid chariot pressed out through the gateway,—the coachman in a cocked hat and scarlet and gold embroidery216, and two other scarlet and gold figures hanging behind. It was one of the Queen's carriages, but seemed to have nobody in it. I have forgotten to mention what, I think, produced more effect on me than anything else, namely, the clash of the bells from the steeple of St. Martin's Church and those of St. Margaret. Really, London seemed to cry out through them, and bid welcome to the Queen.
December 7th.—This being a muddy and dismal day, I went only to the
BRITISH MUSEUM,
which is but a short walk down the street (Great Russell Street). I have now visited it often enough to be on more familiar terms with it than at first, and therefore do not feel myself so weighed down by the many things to be seen. I have ceased to expect or hope or wish to devour217 and digest the whole enormous collection; so I content myself with individual things, and succeed in getting now and then a little honey from them. Unless I were studying some particular branch of history or science or art, this is the best that can be done with the British Museum.
I went first to-day into the Townley Gallery, and so along through all the ancient sculpture, and was glad to find myself able to sympathize more than heretofore with the forms of grace and beauty which are preserved there,—poor, maimed immortalities as they are,—headless and legless trunks, godlike cripples, faces beautiful and broken-nosed,— heroic shapes which have stood so long, or lain prostrate218 so long, in the open air, that even the atmosphere of Greece has almost dissolved the external layer of the marble; and yet, however much they may be worn away, or battered219 and shattered, the grace and nobility seem as deep in them as the very heart of the stone. It cannot be destroyed, except by grinding them to powder. In short, I do really believe that there was an excellence220 in ancient sculpture, which has yet a potency221 to educate and refine the minds of those who look at it even so carelessly and casually222 as I do. As regards the frieze223 of the Parthenon, I must remark that the horses represented on it, though they show great spirit and lifelikeness, are rather of the pony224 species than what would be considered fine horses now. Doubtless, modern breeding has wrought225 a difference in the animal. Flaxman, in his outlines, seems to have imitated these classic steeds of the Parthenon, and thus has produced horses that always appeared to me affected226 and diminutively227 monstrous228.
From the classic sculpture, I passed through an Assyrian room, where the walls are lined with great slabs229 of marble sculptured in bas-relief with scenes in the life of Senmacherib, I believe; very ugly, to be sure, yet artistically230 done in their own style, and in wonderfully good preservation231. Indeed, if the chisel232 had cut its last stroke in them yesterday, the work could not be more sharp and distinct. In glass cases, in this room, are little relics and scraps233 of utensils234, and a great deal of fragmentary rubbish, dug up by Layard in his researches,— things that it is hard to call anything but trash, but which yet may be of great significance as indicating the modes of life of a long-past race. I remember nothing particularly just now, except some pieces of broken glass, iridescent235 with certainly the most beautiful hues in the world,—indescribably beautiful, and unimaginably, unless one can conceive of the colors of the rainbow, and a thousand glorious sunsets, and the autumnal forest-leaves of America, all condensed upon a little fragment of a glass cup,—and that, too, without becoming in the least glaring or flagrant, but mildly glorious, as we may fancy the shifting lines of an angel's wing may be. I think this chaste88 splendor will glow in my memory for years to come. It is the effect of time, and cannot be imitated by any known process of art. I have seen it in specimens of old Roman glass, which has been famous here in England; but never in anything is there the brilliancy of these Oriental fragments. How strange that decay, in dark places, and underground, and where there are a billion chances to one that nobody will ever see its handiwork, should produce these beautiful effects! The glass seems to become perfectly brittle236, so that it would vanish, like a soap-bubble, if touched.
Ascending237 the stairs, I went through the halls of fossil remains,—which I care little for, though one of them is a human skeleton in limestone,— and through several rooms of mineralogical specimens, including all the gems in the world, among which is seen, not the Koh-i-noor itself, but a fac-simile of it in crystal. I think the aerolites are as interesting as anything in this department, and one piece of pure iron, laid against the wall of the room, weighs about fourteen hundred pounds. Whence could it have come? If these aerolites are bits of other planets, how happen they to be always iron? But I know no more of this than if I were a philosopher.
Then I went through rooms of shells and fishes and reptiles238 and tortoises, crocodiles and alligators239 and insects, including all manner of butterflies, some of which had wings precisely240 like leaves, a little withered241 and faded, even the skeleton and fibres of the leaves represented; and immense hairy spiders, covering, with the whole circumference242 of their legs, a space as big as a saucer; and centipedes little less than a foot long; and winged insects that look like jointed243 twigs245 of a tree. In America, I remember, when I lived in Lenox, I found an insect of this species, and at first really mistook it for a twig244. It was smaller than these specimens in the Museum. I suppose every creature, almost, that runs or creeps or swims or flies, is represented in this collection of Natural History; and it puzzles me to think what they were all made for, though it is quite as mysterious why man himself was made.
By and by I entered the room of Egyptian mummies, of which there are a good many, one of which, the body of a priestess, is unrolled, except the innermost layer of linen246. The outline of her face is perfectly visible. Mummies of cats, dogs, snakes, and children are in the wall-cases, together with a vast many articles of Egyptian manufacture and use,—even children's toys; bread, too, in flat cakes; grapes, that have turned to raisins247 in the grave; queerest of all, methinks, a curly wig93, that is supposed to have belonged to a woman,—together with the wooden box that held it. The hair is brown, and the wig is as perfect as if it had been made for some now living dowager.
From Egypt we pass into rooms containing vases and other articles of Grecian and Roman workmanship, and funeral urns248, and beads249, and rings, none of them very beautiful. I saw some splendid specimens, however, at a former visit, when I obtained admission to a room not indiscriminately shown to visitors. What chiefly interested me in that room was a cast taken from the face of Cromwell after death; representing a wide-mouthed, long-chinned, uncomely visage, with a triangular250 English nose in the very centre. There were various other curiosities, which I fancied were safe in my memory, but they do not now come uppermost.
To return to my to-day's progress through the Museum;—next to the classic rooms are the collections of Saxon and British and early English antiquities251, the earlier portions of which are not very interesting to me, possessing little or no beauty in themselves, and indicating a kind of life too remote from our own to be readily sympathized with. Who cares for glass beads and copper252 brooches, and knives, spear-heads, and swords, all so rusty253 that they look as much like pieces of old iron hoop254 as anything else? The bed of the Thames has been a rich treasury255 of antiquities, from the time of the Roman Conquest downwards256; it seems to preserve bronze in considerable perfection, but not iron.
Among the mediaeval relics, the carvings in ivory are often very exquisite257 and elaborate. There are likewise caskets and coffers, and a thousand other Old World ornamental works; but I saw so many and such superior specimens of them at the Manchester Exhibition, that I shall say nothing of them here. The seal-ring of Mary, Queen of Scots, is in one of the cases; it must have been a thumb-ring, judging from its size, and it has a dark stone, engraved258 with armorial bearings. In another case is the magic glass formerly used by Dr. Doe, and in which, if I rightly remember, used to be seen prophetic visions or figures of persons and scenes at a distance. It is a round ball of glass or crystal, slightly tinged259 with a pinkish hue6, and about as big as a small apple, or a little bigger than an egg would be if perfectly round. This ancient humbug260 kept me looking at it perhaps ten minutes; and I saw my own face dimly in it, but no other vision. Lastly, I passed through the Ethnographical Rooms; but I care little for the varieties of the human race,—all that is really important and interesting being found in our own variety. Perhaps equally in any other. This brought me to the head of one of the staircases, descending which I entered the library.
Here—not to speak of the noble rooms and halls—there are numberless treasures beyond all price; too valuable in their way for me to select any one as more curious and valuable than many others. Letters of statesmen and warriors261 of all nations, and several centuries back,—among which, long as it has taken Europe to produce them, I saw none so illustrious as those of Washington, nor more so than Franklin's, whom America gave to the world in her nonage; and epistles of poets and artists, and of kings, too, whose chirography appears to have been much better than I should have expected from fingers so often cramped262 in iron gauntlets. In another case there were the original autograph copies of several famous works,—for example, that of Pope's Homer, written on the backs of letters, the direction and seals of which appear in the midst of "the Tale of Troy divine," which also is much scratched and interlined with Pope's corrections; a manuscript of one of Ben Jonson's masques; of the Sentimental263 Journey, written in much more careful and formal style than might be expected, the book pretending to be a harum-scarum; of Walter Scott's Kenilworth, bearing such an aspect of straightforward264 diligence that I shall hardly think of it again as a romance;—in short, I may as well drop the whole matter here.
All through the long vista of the king's library, we come to cases in which—with their pages open beneath the glass—we see books worth their weight in gold, either for their uniqueness or their beauty, or because they have belonged to illustrious men, and have their autographs in them. The copy of the English translation of Montaigne, containing the strange scrawl265 of Shakespeare's autograph, is here. Bacon's name is in another book; Queen Elizabeth's in another; and there is a little devotional volume, with Lady Jane Grey's writing in it. She is supposed to have taken it to the scaffold with her. Here, too, I saw a copy, which was printed at a Venetian press at the time, of the challenge which the Admirable Crichton caused to be posted on the church doors of Venice, defying all the scholars of Italy to encounter him. But if I mention one thing, I find fault with myself for not putting down fifty others just as interesting,—and, after all, there is an official catalogue, no doubt, of the whole.
As I do not mean to fill any more pages with the British Museum, I will just mention the hall of Egyptian antiquities on the ground-floor of the edifice, though I did not pass through it to-day. They consist of things that would be very ugly and contemptible266 if they were not so immensely magnified; but it is impossible not to acknowledge a certain grandeur267, resulting from the scale on which those strange old sculptors268 wrought. For instance, there is a granite fist of prodigious size, at least a yard across, and looking as if it were doubled in the face of Time, defying him to destroy it. All the rest of the statue to which it belonged seems to have vanished; but this fist will certainly outlast269 the Museum, and whatever else it contains, unless it be some similar Egyptian ponderosity. There is a beetle270, wrought out of immensely hard black stone, as big as a hogshead. It is satisfactory to see a thing so big and heavy. Then there are huge stone sarcophagi, engraved with hieroglyphics271 within and without, all as good as new, though their age is reckoned by thousands of years. These great coffins272 are of vast weight and mass, insomuch that when once the accurately273 fitting lids were shut down, there might have seemed little chance of their being lifted again till the Resurrection. I positively like these coffins, they are so faithfully made, and so black and stern,—and polished to such a nicety, only to be buried forever; for the workmen, and the kings who were laid to sleep within, could never have dreamed of the British Museum.
There is a deity274 named Pasht, who sits in the hall, very big, very grave, carved of black stone, and very ludicrous, wearing a dog's head. I will just mention the Rosetta Stone, with a Greek inscription, and another in Egyptian characters which gave the clew to a whole field of history; and shall pretermit all further handling of this unwieldy subject.
In all the rooms I saw people of the poorer classes, some of whom seemed to view the objects intelligently, and to take a genuine interest in them. A poor man in London has great opportunities of cultivating himself if he will only make the best of them; and such an institution as the British Museum can hardly fail to attract, as the magnet does steel, the minds that are likeliest to be benefited by it in its various departments. I saw many children there, and some ragged275 boys.
It deserves to be noticed that some small figures of Indian Thugs, represented as engaged in their profession and handiwork of cajoling and strangling travellers, have been removed from the place which they formerly occupied in the part of the Museum shown to the general public. They are now in the more private room, and the reason of their withdrawal276 is, that, according to the Chaplain of Newgate, the practice of garroting was suggested to the English thieves by this representation of Indian Thugs. It is edifying277, after what I have written in the preceding paragraph, to find that the only lesson known to have been inculcated here is that of a new mode of outrage278.
December 8th.—This morning, when it was time to rise, there was but a glimmering279 of daylight, and we had candles on the breakfast-table at nearly ten o'clock. All abroad there was a dense183 dim fog brooding through the atmosphere, insomuch that we could hardly see across the street. At eleven o'clock I went out into the midst of the fog-bank, which for the moment seemed a little more interfused with daylight; for there seem to be continual changes in the density280 of this dim medium, which varies so much that now you can but just see your hand before you, and a moment afterwards you can see the cabs dashing out of the duskiness a score of yards off. It is seldom or never, moreover, an unmitigated gloom, but appears to be mixed up with sunshine in different proportions; sometimes only one part sun to a thousand of smoke and fog, and sometimes sunshine enough to give the whole mass a coppery line. This would have been a bright sunny day but for the interference of the fog; and before I had been out long, I actually saw the sun looking red and rayless, much like the millionth magnification of a new halfpenny.
I was bound towards Bennoch's; for he had written a note to apologize for not visiting us, and I had promised to call and see him to-day.
I went to Marlborough House to look at the English pictures, which I care more about seeing, here in England, than those of foreign artists, because the latter will be found more numerously and better on the Continent. I saw many pictures that pleased me; nothing that impressed me very strongly. Pictorial281 talent seems to be abundant enough, up to a certain point; pictorial genius, I should judge, is among the rarest of gifts. To be sure, I very likely might not recognize it where it existed; and yet it ought to have the power of making itself known even to the uninstructed mind, as literary genius does. If it exist only for connoisseurs282, it is a very suspicious matter. I looked at all Turner's pictures, and at many of his drawings; and must again confess myself wholly unable to understand more than a very few of them. Even those few are tantalizing283. At a certain distance you discern what appears to be a grand and beautiful picture, which you shall admire and enjoy infinitely284 if you can get within the range of distinct vision. You come nearer, and find only blotches285 of color and dabs286 of the brush, meaning nothing when you look closely, and meaning a mystery at the point where the painter intended to station you. Some landscapes there were, indeed, full of imaginative beauty, and of the better truth etherealized out of the prosaic287 truth of Nature; only it was still impossible actually to see it. There was a mist over it; or it was like a tract75 of beautiful dreamland, seen dimly through sleep, and glimmering out of sight, if looked upon with wide-open eyes. These were the more satisfactory specimens. There were many others which I could not comprehend in the remotest degree; not even so far as to conjecture288 whether they purported289 to represent earth, sea, or sky. In fact, I should not have known them to be pictures at all, but might have supposed that the artist had been trying his brush on the canvas, mixing up all sorts of hues, but principally white paint, and now and then producing an agreeable harmony of color without particularly intending it. Now that I have done my best to understand them without an interpreter, I mean to buy Ruskin's pamphlet at my next visit, and look at them through his eyes. But I do not think that I can be driven out of the idea that a picture ought to have something in common with what the spectator sees in nature.
Marlborough House may be converted, I think, into a very handsome residence for the young Prince of Wales. The entrance from the court-yard is into a large, square central hall, the painted ceiling of which is at the whole height of the edifice, and has a gallery on one side, whence it would be pleasant to look down on a festal scene below. The rooms are of fine proportions, with vaulted290 ceilings, and with fireplaces and mantel-pieces of great beauty, adorned with pillars and terminal figures of white and of variegated291 marble; and in the centre of each mantel-piece there is a marble tablet, exquisitely292 sculptured with classical designs, done in such high relief that the figures are sometimes almost disengaged from the background. One of the subjects was Androcles, or whatever was his name, taking the thorn out of the lion's foot. I suppose these works are of the era of the first old Duke and Duchess. After all, however, for some reason or other, the house does not at first strike you as a noble and princely one, and you have to convince yourself of it by examining it more in detail.
On leaving Marlborough House, I stepped for a few moments into the National Gallery, and looked, among other things, at the Turners and Claudes that hung there side by side. These pictures, I think, are quite the most comprehensible of Turner's productions; but I must say I prefer the Claudes. The latter catches "the light that never was on sea or land" without taking you quite away from nature for it. Nevertheless, I will not be quite certain that I care for any painter except Murillo, whose St. John I should like to own. As far as my own pleasure is concerned, I could not say as much for any other picture; for I have always found an infinite weariness and disgust resulting from a picture being too frequently before my eyes. I had rather see a basilisk, for instance, than the very best of those old, familiar pictures in the Boston Athenaeum; and most of those in the National Gallery might soon affect me in the same way.
From the Gallery I almost groped my way towards the city, for the fog seemed to grow denser and denser as I advanced; and when I reached St. Paul's, the sunny intermixture above spoken of was at its minimum, so that, the smoke-cloud grew really black about the dome and pinnacles294, and the statues of saints looked down dimly from their standpoints on high. It was very grand, however, to see the pillars and porticos, and the huge bulk of the edifice, heaving up its dome from an obscure foundation into yet more shadowy obscurity; and by the time I reached the corner of the churchyard nearest Cheapside, the whole vast cathedral had utterly295 vanished, leaving "not a wrack296 behind," unless those thick, dark vapors297 were the elements of which it had been composed, and into which it had again dissolved. It is good to think, nevertheless,—and I gladly accept the analogy and the moral,—that the cathedral was really there, and as substantial as ever, though those earthly mists had hidden it from mortal eyes.
I found ——— in better spirits than when I saw him last, but his misfortune has been too real not to affect him long and deeply. He was cheerful, however, and his face shone with almost its old lustre298. It has still the cheeriest glow that I ever saw in any human countenance299.
I went home by way of Holborn, and the fog was denser than ever,—very black, indeed more like a distillation300 of mud than anything else; the ghost of mud,—the spiritualized medium of departed mud, through which the dead citizens of London probably tread in the Hades whither they are translated. So heavy was the gloom, that gas was lighted in all the shop-windows; and the little charcoal-furnaces of the women and boys, roasting chestnuts, threw a ruddy, misty glow around them. And yet I liked it. This fog seems an atmosphere proper to huge, grimy London; as proper to London as that light neither of the sun nor moon is to the New Jerusalem.
On reaching home, I found the same fog diffused301 through the drawing-room, though how it could have got in is a mystery. Since nightfall, however, the atmosphere is clear again.
December 20th.—Here we are still in London, at least a month longer than we expected, and at the very dreariest302 and dullest season of the year. Had I thought of it sooner, I might have found interesting people enough to know, even when all London is said to be out of town; but meditating303 a stay only of a week or two (on our way to Rome), it did not seem worth while to seek acquaintances.
I have been out only for one evening; and that was at Dr. ———'s, who had been attending all the children in the measles304. (Their illness was what detained us.) He is a homoeopathist, and is known in scientific or general literature; at all events, a sensible and enlightened man, with an un-English freedom of mind on some points. For example, he is a Swedenborgian, and a believer in modern spiritualism. He showed me some drawings that had been made under the spiritual influence by a miniature-painter who possesses no imaginative power of his own, and is merely a good mechanical and literal copyist; but these drawings, representing angels and allegorical people, were done by an influence which directed the artist's hand, he not knowing what his next touch would be, nor what the final result. The sketches305 certainly did show a high and fine expressiveness306, if examined in a trustful mood. Dr. ——— also spoke293 of Mr. Harris, the American poet of spiritualism, as being the best poet of the day; and he produced his works in several volumes, and showed me songs, and paragraphs of longer poems, in support of his opinion. They seemed to me to have a certain light and splendor, but not to possess much power, either passionate307 or intellectual. Mr. Harris is the medium of deceased poets, Milton and Lord Byron among the rest; and Dr. ——— said that Lady Byron—who is a devoted308 admirer of her husband, in spite of their conjugal309 troubles—pronounced some of these posthumous310 strains to be worthy of his living genius. Then the Doctor spoke of various strange experiences which he himself has had in these spiritual matters; for he has witnessed the miraculous311 performances of Home, the American medium, and he has seen with his own eyes, and felt with his own touch, those ghostly hands and arms the reality of which has been certified312 to me by other beholders. Dr. ——— tells me that they are cold, and that it is a somewhat awful matter to see and feel them. I should think so, indeed. Do I believe in these wonders? Of course; for how is it possible to doubt either the solemn word or the sober observation of a learned and sensible man like Dr. ———? But again, do I really believe it? Of course not; for I cannot consent to have heaven and earth, this world and the next, beaten up together like the white and yolk313 of an egg, merely out of respect to Dr. ———'s sanity314 and integrity. I would not believe my own sight, nor touch of the spiritual hands; and it would take deeper and higher strains than those of Mr. Harris to convince me. I think I might yield to higher poetry or heavenlier wisdom than mortals in the flesh have ever sung or uttered.
Meanwhile, this matter of spiritualism is surely the strangest that ever was heard of; and yet I feel unaccountably little interest in it,—a sluggish315 disgust, and repugnance316 to meddle317 with it,—insomuch that I hardly feel as if it were worth this page or two in my not very eventful journal. One or two of the ladies present at Dr. ———'s little party seemed to be mediums.
I have made several visits to the picture-galleries since my last date; and I think it fair towards my own powers of appreciation318 to record that I begin to appreciate Turner's pictures rather better than at first. Not that I have anything to recant as respects those strange, white-grounded performances in the chambers at the Marlborough House; but some of his happier productions (a large landscape illustrative of Childe Harold, for instance) seem to me to have more magic in them than any other pictures. I admire, too, that misty, morning landscape in the National Gallery; and, no doubt, his very monstrosities are such as only he could have painted, and may have an infinite value for those who can appreciate the genius in them.
The shops in London begin to show some tokens of approaching Christmas; especially the toy-shops, and the confectioners',—the latter ornamenting319 their windows with a profusion320 of bonbons321 and all manner of pygmy figures in sugar; the former exhibiting Christmas-trees, hung with rich and gaudy322 fruit. At the butchers' shops, there is a great display of fat carcasses, and an abundance of game at the poulterers'. We think of going to the Crystal Palace to spend the festival day, and eat our Christmas dinner; but, do what we may, we shall have no home feeling or fireside enjoyment. I am weary, weary of London and of England, and can judge now how the old Loyalists must have felt, condemned323 to pine out their lives here, when the Revolution had robbed them of their native country. And yet there is still a pleasure in being in this dingy, smoky, midmost haunt of men; and I trudge13 through Fleet Street and Ludgate Street and along Cheapside with an enjoyment as great as I ever felt in a wood-path at home; and I have come to know these streets as well, I believe, as I ever knew Washington Street in Boston, or even Essex Street in my stupid old native town. For Piccadilly or for Regent Street, though more brilliant promenades324, I do not care nearly so much.
December 27th.—Still leading an idle life, which, however, may not be quite thrown away, as I see some things, and think many thoughts.
The other day we went to Westminster Abbey, and through the chapels325; and it being as sunny a day as could well be in London, and in December, we could judge, in some small degree, what must have been the splendor of those tombs and monuments when first erected326 there.
I presume I was sufficiently minute in describing my first visit to the chapels, so I shall only mention the stiff figure of a lady of Queen Elizabeth's court, reclining on the point of her elbow under a mural arch through all these dusty years; . . . . and the old coronation-chair, with the stone of Scone327 beneath the seat, and the wood-work cut and scratched all over with names and initials. . . .
I continue to go to the picture-galleries. I have an idea that the face of Murillo's St. John has a certain mischievous328 intelligence in it. This has impressed me almost from the first. It is a boy's face, very beautiful and very pleasant too, but with an expression that one might fairly suspect to be roguish if seen in the face of a living boy.
About equestrian329 statues, as those of various kings at Charing Cross, and otherwhere about London, and of the Duke of Wellington opposite Apsley House, and in front of the Exchange, it strikes me as absurd, the idea of putting a man on horseback on a place where one movement of the steed forward or backward or sideways would infallibly break his own and his rider's neck. The English sculptors generally seem to have been aware of this absurdity330, and have endeavored to lessen331 it by making the horse as quiet as a cab-horse on the stand, instead of rearing rampant332, like the bronze group of Jackson at Washington. The statue of Wellington, at the Piccadilly corner of the Park, has a stately and imposing333 effect, seen from far distances, in approaching either through the Green Park, or from the Oxford334 Street corner of Hyde Park.
January 3d, 1858.—On Thursday we had the pleasure of a call from Mr. Coventry Patmore, to whom Dr. Wilkinson gave me a letter of introduction, and on whom I had called twice at the British Museum without finding him. We had read his Betrothal335 and Angel in the House with unusual pleasure and sympathy, and therefore were very glad to make his personal acquaintance. He is a man of much more youthful aspect than I had expected, . . . . a slender person to be an Englishman, though not remarkably336 so had he been an American; with an intelligent, pleasant, and sensitive face,—a man very evidently of refined feelings and cultivated mind. . . . He is very simple and agreeable in his manners; a little shy, yet perfectly frank, and easy to meet on real grounds. . . . He said that his wife had proposed to come with him, and had, indeed, accompanied him to town, but was kept away. . . . We were very sorry for this, because Mr. Patmore seems to acknowledge her as the real "Angel in the House," although he says she herself ignores all connection with the poem. It is well for her to do so, and for her husband to feel that the character is her real portrait; and both, I suppose, are right. It is a most beautiful and original poem,—a poem for happy married people to read together, and to understand by the light of their own past and present life; but I doubt whether the generality of English people are capable of appreciating it. I told Mr. Patmore that I thought his popularity in America would be greater than at home, and he said that it was already so; and he appeared to estimate highly his American fame, and also our general gift of quicker and more subtle recognition of genius than the English public. . . . We mutually gratified each other by expressing high admiration337 of one another's works, and Mr. Patmore regretted that in the few days of our further stay here we should not have time to visit him at his home. It would really give me pleasure to do so. . . . I expressed a hope of seeing him in Italy during our residence there, and he seemed to think it possible, as his friend, and our countryman, Thomas Buchanan Read, had asked him to come thither and be his guest. He took his leave, shaking hands with all of us because he saw that we were of his own people, recognizing him as a true poet. He has since given me the new edition of his poems, with a kind rote338.
We are now making preparations for our departure, which we expect will take place on Tuesday; and yesterday I went to our Minister's to arrange about the passport. The very moment I rang at his door, it swung open, and the porter ushered339 me with great courtesy into the anteroom; not that he knew me, or anything about me, except that I was an American citizen. This is the deference340 which an American servant of the public finds it expedient341 to show to his sovereigns. Thank Heaven, I am a sovereign again, and no longer a servant; and really it is very singular how I look down upon our ambassadors and dignitaries of all sorts, not excepting the President himself. I doubt whether this is altogether a good influence of our mode of government.
I did not see, and, in fact, declined seeing, the Minister himself, but only his son, the Secretary of Legation, and a Dr. P———, an American traveller just from the Continent. He gave a fearful account of the difficulties that beset342 a person landing with much luggage in Italy, and especially at Civita Vecchia, the very port at which we intended to debark343. I have been so long in England that it seems a cold and shivery thing to go anywhere else.
Bennoch came to take tea with us on the 5th, it being his first visit since we came to London, and likewise his farewell visit on our leaving for the Continent.
On his departure, J——- and I walked a good way down Oxford Street and Holborn with him, and I took leave of him with the kindest wishes for his welfare.
END OF VOL. II.
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1
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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trudge
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| v.步履艰难地走；n.跋涉，费力艰难的步行 | |
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dingier
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| adj.暗淡的，乏味的( dingy的比较级 )；肮脏的 | |
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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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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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ponderosity
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| n.沉重，笨重；有质性；可称性 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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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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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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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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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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overthrowing
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| v.打倒，推翻( overthrow的现在分词 )；使终止 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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40
frowzy
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| adj.不整洁的；污秽的 | |
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41
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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42
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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43
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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44
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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45
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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47
pertains
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| 关于( pertain的第三人称单数 )； 有关； 存在； 适用 | |
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pertain
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| v.(to)附属，从属；关于；有关；适合，相称 | |
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49
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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50
mortars
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| n.迫击炮( mortar的名词复数 )；砂浆；房产；研钵 | |
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51
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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52
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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53
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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54
rammed
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| v.夯实（土等）( ram的过去式和过去分词 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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55
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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56
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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57
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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58
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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59
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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apertures
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| n.孔( aperture的名词复数 )；隙缝；（照相机的）光圈；孔径 | |
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63
alcoves
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| n.凹室( alcove的名词复数 )；（花园）凉亭；僻静处；壁龛 | |
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64
transcripts
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| n.抄本（ transcript的名词复数 ）；转写本；文字本；副本 | |
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deviously
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| 弯曲地，绕道地 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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67
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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68
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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69
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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71
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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72
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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73
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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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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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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facades
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| n.（房屋的）正面( facade的名词复数 )；假象，外观 | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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88
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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chastely
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| adv.贞洁地，清高地，纯正地 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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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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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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100
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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103
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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106
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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107
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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108
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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109
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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110
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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111
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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113
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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114
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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115
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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116
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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117
trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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118
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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119
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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120
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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121
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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122
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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123
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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124
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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126
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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127
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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128
nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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129
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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130
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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131
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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132
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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133
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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134
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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135
reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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136
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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137
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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138
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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139
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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140
glorification
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| n.赞颂 | |
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141
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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142
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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143
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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144
nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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145
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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146
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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147
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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148
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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149
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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150
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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151
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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152
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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153
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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154
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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155
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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156
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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157
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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158
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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159
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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160
reposeful
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| adj.平稳的，沉着的 | |
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161
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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162
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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163
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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164
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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165
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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166
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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167
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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168
aviaries
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| n.大鸟笼( aviary的名词复数 )；鸟舍；鸟类饲养场；鸟类饲养者 | |
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169
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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170
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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171
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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172
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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173
sables
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| n.紫貂( sable的名词复数 )；紫貂皮；阴暗的；暗夜 | |
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174
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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175
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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176
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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177
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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178
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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179
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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180
sordidness
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| n.肮脏；污秽；卑鄙；可耻 | |
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181
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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182
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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183
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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184
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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185
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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186
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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187
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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188
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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189
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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190
glorifies
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| 赞美( glorify的第三人称单数 )； 颂扬； 美化； 使光荣 | |
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191
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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192
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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193
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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194
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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195
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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196
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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197
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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198
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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199
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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200
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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201
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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202
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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203
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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204
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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205
preponderate
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| v.数目超过；占优势 | |
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206
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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207
impermeable
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| adj.不能透过的，不渗透的 | |
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208
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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209
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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210
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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211
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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212
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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213
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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214
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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215
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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216
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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217
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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218
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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219
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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220
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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221
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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222
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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223
frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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224
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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225
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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226
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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227
diminutively
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| adv.特小地；小型地；仅仅地 | |
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228
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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229
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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230
artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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231
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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232
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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233
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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234
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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235
iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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236
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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237
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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238
reptiles
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| n.爬行动物，爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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239
alligators
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| n.短吻鳄( alligator的名词复数 ) | |
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240
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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241
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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242
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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243
jointed
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| 有接缝的 | |
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244
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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245
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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246
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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247
raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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248
urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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249
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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250
triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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251
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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252
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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253
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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254
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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255
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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256
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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257
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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258
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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259
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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260
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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261
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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262
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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263
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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264
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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265
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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266
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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267
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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268
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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269
outlast
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| v.较…耐久 | |
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270
beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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271
hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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272
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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273
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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274
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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275
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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276
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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277
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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278
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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279
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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280
density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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281
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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282
connoisseurs
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| n.鉴赏家，鉴定家，行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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283
tantalizing
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|
| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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284
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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285
blotches
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| n.（皮肤上的）红斑，疹块( blotch的名词复数 )；大滴 [大片]（墨水或颜色的）污渍 | |
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286
dabs
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| 少许( dab的名词复数 )； 是…能手； 做某事很在行； 在某方面技术熟练 | |
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287
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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288
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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289
purported
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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290
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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291
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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292
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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293
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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294
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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295
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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296
wrack
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| v.折磨；n.海草 | |
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297
vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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298
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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299
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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300
distillation
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| n.蒸馏，蒸馏法 | |
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301
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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302
dreariest
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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303
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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304
measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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305
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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306
expressiveness
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| n.富有表现力 | |
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307
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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308
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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309
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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310
posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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311
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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312
certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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313
yolk
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| n.蛋黄，卵黄 | |
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314
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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315
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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316
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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317
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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318
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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319
ornamenting
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| v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的现在分词 ) | |
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320
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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321
bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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322
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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323
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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324
promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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325
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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326
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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327
scone
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| n.圆饼，甜饼，司康饼 | |
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328
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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329
equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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330
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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331
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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332
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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333
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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334
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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335
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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336
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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337
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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338
rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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339
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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340
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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341
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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342
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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343
debark
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| v.卸载；下船，下飞机，下车 | |
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