There are many places which nobody can look upon without being consciously influenced by a sense of their history. It is a battlefield, and the earth shows the scars of its old wounds; or a castle or cathedral of distinct renown34 rises among the oaks; or a manor house or cottage, or tomb or woodland walk that speaks of a dead poet or soldier. Then, according to the extent or care of our reading and the clearness of our imagination, we can pour into the groves35 or on the turf tumultuous or silent armies, or solitary36 man or woman. It is a deeply-worn coast; the spring tide gnaws37 the yellow cliff, and the wind files it with unceasing hiss38, and the relics39 of every age, skull40 and weapon and shroudpin and coin and carven stone, are spread out upon the clean, untrodden sand, and the learned, the imaginative, the fanciful, the utterly41 unhistoric and merely human man exercises his spirit upon them, and responds, if only for a moment. In some places history has wrought42 like an earthquake, in others like an ant or mole43; everywhere, permanently44; so that if we but knew or cared, every swelling45 of the grass, every wavering line of hedge or path or road were an inscription46, brief as an epitaph, in many languages and characters. But most of us know only a few of these unspoken languages of the past, and only a few words in each. Wars and parliaments are but dim, soundless, and formless happenings in the brain; toil48 and passion of generations produce only an enriching of the light within the glades49, and a solemnizing of the shadows.
[151]
Out of a whole century or age we remember nothing vividly50 and in a manner that appeals to the eye, except some such picture as that which Gerald of Wales gives of a Welsh prince, Cyneuric, son of Rhys. He was tall and handsome, fair-complexioned, his hair curled; his dress was a thin cloak, and under that a shirt, his legs and feet being bare, regardless of thistle and brier; a man to whom nature and not art had given his beauty and comely53 bearing. Outside Wales, and in ages far removed from the twelfth century, this figure of a man will follow us, and help to animate54 any wild scene that is coloured by antiquity55. It is some such man, his fair hair perhaps exchanged for black, and his nobility more animal and clothed in skins, that we see, if we see a man at all, when we muse56 deeply upon the old road worn deep into the chalk, among burial mound57 and encampment; we feel rather than see the innumerable companies of men like this, following their small cattle to the stream or the dew-pond, wearing out the hard earth with their naked feet and trailing ash staves. Going up such a road, between steep banks of chalk and the roots and projecting bases of beeches whose foliage58 meets overhead—a road worn twenty feet deep, and now scarce ever used as a footpath7 except by fox and hare—we may be half-conscious that we have climbed that way before during the furrowing60 of the road, and we move as in a dream between this age and that dim one which we vainly strive to recover.
But because we are imperfectly versed62 in history, we are not therefore blind to the past. The eye that sees the things of to-day, and the ear that hears, the mind that contemplates63 or dreams, is itself an instrument of an antiquity equal to whatever it is called upon to appre[152]hend. We are not merely twentieth-century Londoners or Kentish men or Welshmen. We belong to the days of Wordsworth, of Elizabeth, of Richard Plantagenet, of Harold, of the earliest bards65. We, too, like Taliesin, have borne a banner before Alexander, have been with our Lord in the manger of the ass2, have been in India, and with the “remnant of Troia,” and with Noah in the ark, and our original country is “the region of the summer stars.” And of these many folds in our nature the face of the earth reminds us, and perhaps, even where there are no more marks visible upon the land than there were in Eden, we are aware of the passing of time in ways too difficult and strange for the explanation of historian and zoologist66 and philosopher. It is this manifold nature that responds with such indescribable depth and variety to the appeals of many landscapes.
We come to a huge, flat-bottomed, grassy68 coombe, smooth as a racecourse, that winds out of the cornland into the heart of the Downs. It is like the bed of a river of great depth. At its entrance beeches clothe either side; but presently they cease, and up the steep juniper slopes go the paths of hares, of the herds70 and flocks of earliest ages and of the men and women and children also, whose children’s children’s children have forgotten them though not perhaps their philosophy. The grass of the slope is mingled71 with small sweet herbage, the salad burnet rosy72-stemmed, the orange bird’s-foot trefoil, the purple thyme, the fine white flax, the delicatest golden hawk-bit, and basil and marjoram, and rosettes of crimson73 thistles, all sunny warm and fragrant74, glittering and glowing or melting into a simmering haze75, musical with grasshoppers77 and a-flutter with blue butterflies, so that the[153] earth seems to be a thick-furred, genial78 animal. At length the windings79 shut out the plain, and the coombe is a green hall roofed by the hot blue sky. Its walls are steeper than ever, and the burrowings of the rabbits have streaked81 the grasses with long splashes—like those made by sea-birds on rocks—of white chalk. The curves of these walls are like those of the flight of the swifts that dive overhead. Here there are no human paths, no sign of house, of grave, of herd69, of cultivation82. It is the world’s end, and the rabbits race up and down as in a dream of solitude83.
Yet the mind is not discontented and unfed. This is no boundless84 solitude of ocean where one may take a kind of pleasure
To float for ever with a careless course
And think himself the only being alive.
It is not an end but a beginning that we have reached. These are the elements—pure earth and wind and sunlight—out of which beauty and joy arise, original and ancient, for ever young. Their presence restores us not to the Middle Ages, not to the days of Mr. Doughty’s heroic princes and princesses of Britain,[4] not to any dim arch?ologist’s world of reeking85 marsh86 and wood, of mammoth87 and brutish men, but to a region out of space and out of time in which life and thought and physical health are in harmony with sun and earth, fragrant as the flowers in the grass, blithe88 as the grasshopper76, swift as the hares, divine; and out of it all arises a vision of the man who will embody89 this thought, a man whom human infelicity, discontented with the past, has placed in a golden age still farther back, for the sufficient reason[154] that in every age he has been a dream, and our dreaming is of the dawn or the night, always disappointed but undaunted by the day that follows. And so no storied valley or hillside is richer in humanity than this coombe. It is one of the countless91 Edens where we are in contact not with the soldier and ploughman and mason that change the surface of the earth, but with prophet and poet who have ever lived to trace to Nature and to the early ages the health and vigour92 of men. There is the greatest antiquity of all, peace and purity and simplicity93, and in the midst is the mother Earth, the young mother of the world, with a face like Ceres before she had lost Persephone in the underworld. In fact, so blessed is this solitary hall that after climbing out it is mournful to see the rabbit-worn tunnels and the Roman camp on the ridge10.
CORNWALL.
In Cornwall, where the wrinkles and angles of the earth’s age are left to show, antiquity plays a giant’s part on every hand. What a curious effect have those ruins, all but invisible among the sands, the sea-blue scabious, the tamarisk and rush, though at night they seem not inaudible when the wild air is full of crying! Some that are not nearly as old are almost as magical. One there is that stands near a great water, cut off from a little town and from the world by a round green hill and touched by no road but only by a wandering path. At the foot of this hill, among yellow mounds94 of sand, under blue sky, the church is dark and alone. It is not very old—not five centuries—and is of plainest masonry95: its blunt short spire96 of slate13 slabs97 that leans slightly to one side, with the[155] smallest of perforated slate windows at the base, has a look of age and rusticity98. In the churchyard is a rough grey cross of stone—a disc supported by a pillar. It is surrounded by the waving noiseless tamarisk. It looks northward99 over the sandhills at a blue bay, guarded on the west by tall grey cliffs which a white column surmounts100.
For a time the nearer sandhills have rested and clothed themselves in bird’s-foot trefoil, thyme, eyebright and short turf: but once the church was buried beneath them. Between the round hill and the church a tiny stream sidles along through a level hiding-place of flags and yellow flag flowers, of purple figwort and purple orchis and green grass.
A cormorant101 flies low across the sky—that sable102 bird which seems to belong to the old time, the time of badger103 and beaver104, of ancient men who rose up out of the crags of this coast. To them, when the cuckoo first called one April, came over the blue sea a small brown ship, followed by three seals, and out of it descended106 a Christian107 from Ireland, black-haired, blue-eyed, with ready red lips and deep sweet voice and spoke47 to them, all alone. He told them of a power that ruled the blue waters and shifting sands, who could move the round green hill to the rock of the white gulls109; taller and grimmer than the cloven headland yet sweet and gentle as the fennel above; deep-voiced as the Atlantic storm, tender also as the sedgewarbler in the flags below the hill; whose palace was loftier than the blue to which the lark110 was now soaring, milder and richer than the meadows in May and everlasting111; and his attendants were more numerous and bright than the herring under a moon of frost. The milkpails should be fuller and the grass deeper and the corn[156] heavier in the car if they believed in this; the pilchards should be as water boiling in the bay; and they should have wings as of the white birds that lounged about the precipices113 of the coast. And all the time the three seals lay with their heads and backs above the shallows and watched. Perhaps the men believed his word; perhaps they dropped him over the precipice112 to see whether he also flew like a gull108: but here is the church named after him.
All along the coast (and especially where it is lofty and houseless, and on the ledges114 of the crags the young grey gulls unable to fly bob their heads seaward and try to scream like their parents who wheel far and near with double yodeling cry), there are many rounded barrows looking out to sea. And there are some amidst the sandhills, bare and corrugated115 by the wind and heaved up like a feather-bed, their edges golden against the blue sky or mangily covered by drab marram grass that whistles wintrily; and near by the blue sea, slightly roughened as by a barrow, sleeps calm but foamy116 among cinder-coloured isles118; donkeys graze on the brown turf, larks119 rise and fall and curlews go by; a cuckoo sings among the deserted120 mines. But the barrows are most noble on the high heather and grass. The lonely turf is full of lilac scabious flowers and crimson knapweed among the solid mounds of gorse. The brown-green-grey of the dry summer grass reveals myriads121 of the flowers of thyme, of stonecrop yellow and white, of pearly eyebright, of golden lady’s fingers, and the white or grey clover with its purest and earthiest of all fragrances123. Here and there steep tracks descend105 slantwise among the thrift124-grown crags to the sea, or promise to descend but end abruptly125 in[157] precipices. On the barrows themselves, which are either isolated127 or in a group of two or three, grow thistle and gorse. They command mile upon mile of cliff and sea. In their sight the great headlands run out to sea and sinking seem to rise again a few miles out in a sheer island, so that they resemble couchant beasts with backs under water but heads and haunches upreared. The cliffs are cleft128 many times by steep-sided coves129, some with broad sand and shallow water among purple rocks, the outlet130 of a rivulet; others ending precipitously so that the stream suddenly plunges131 into the black sea among a huddle133 of sunless boulders134. Near such a stream there will be a grey farm amid grey outbuildings—with a carved wooden eagle from the wreckage135 of the cove61, or a mermaid136, once a figure-head with fair long hair and round bosom137, built into the wall of a barn. Or there is a briny138 hamlet grouped steeply on either side of the stream which gurgles among the pebbles139 down to the feet of the bearded fisherman and the ships a-gleam. Or perhaps there is no stream at all, and bramble and gorse come down dry and hot to the lips of the emerald and purple pools. Deep roads from the sea to the cliff-top have been worn by smuggler141 and fisherman and miner, climbing and descending142. Inland shows a solitary pinnacled143 church tower, rosy in the warm evening—a thin line of trees, long bare stems and dark foliage matted—and farther still the ridges144 of misty145 granite146, rough as the back of a perch147.
Of all the rocky land, of the sapphire148 sea white with quiet foam117, the barrows are masters. The breaking away of the rock has brought them nearer to the sea as it has annihilated149 some and cut off the cliff-ways in mid-career. They stand in the unenclosed waste and are removed from[158] all human uses and from most wayfaring150. Thus they share the sublimity151 of beacons152 and are about to show that tombs also have their deaths. Linnet and stonechat and pipit seem to attend upon them, with pretty voices and motions and a certain ghastliness, as of shadows, given to their cheerful and sudden flittings by the solemn neighbourhood. But most of their hold upon the spirit they owe to their powerful suggestion that here upon the high sea border was once lived a bold proud life, like that of Beowulf, whose words, when he was dying from the wounds of his last victory, were: “Bid the warriors154 raise a funeral mound to flash with fire on a promontory above the sea, that it may stand high and be a memorial by which my people shall remember me, and seafarers driving their tall ships through the mist of the sea shall say: ‘Beowulf’s Mound.’”
In Cornwall as in Wales, these monuments are the more impressive, because the earth, wasting with them and showing her bones, takes their part. There are days when the age of the Downs, strewn with tumuli and the remnants of camp and village, is incredible; or rather they seem in the course of long time to have grown smooth and soft and kind, and to be, like a rounded languid cloud, an expression of Earth’s summer bliss155 of afternoon. But granite and slate and sandstone jut156 out, and in whatsoever157 weather speak rather of the cold, drear, hard, windy dawn. Nothing can soften158 the lines of Trendreen or Brown Willy or Carn Galver against the sky. The small stone-hedged ploughlands amidst brake and gorse do but accentuate159 the wildness of the land from which they have been won. The deserted mines are frozen cries of despair as if they had perished in conflict with[159] the waste; and in a few years their chimneys standing160 amidst rotted woodwork, the falling masonry, the engine rusty161, huge and still (the abode162 of rabbits, and all overgrown with bedstraw, the stern thistle and wizard henbane) are in keeping with the miles of barren land, littered with rough silvered stones among heather and furze, whose many barrows are deep in fern and bramble and foxglove. The cotton grass raises its pure nodding white. The old roads dive among still more furze and bracken and bramble and foxglove, and on every side the land grows no such crop as that of grey stones. Even in the midst of occasional cornfield or weedless pasture a long grey upright stone speaks of the past. In many places men have set up these stones, roughly squaring some of them, in the form of a circle or in groups of circles—and over them beats the buzzard in slow hesitating and swerving163 flight. In one place the work of Nature might be mistaken for that of man. On a natural hillock stands what appears to be the ruin of an irregularly heaped wall of grey rock, roughened by dark-grey lichen164, built of enormous angular fragments like the masonry of a giant’s child. Near at hand, bracken, pink stonecrop, heather and bright gold tormentil soften it; but at a distance it stands black against the summer sky, touched with the pathos165 of man’s handiwork overthrown166, yet certainly an accident of Nature. It commands Cape67 Cornwall and the harsh sea, and St. Just with its horned church tower. On every hand lie cromlech, camp, circle, hut and tumulus of the unwritten years. They are confused and mingled with the natural litter of a barren land. It is a silent Bedlam167 of history, a senseless cemetery168 or museum, amidst which we walk as animals must do when they see those valleys full of[160] skeletons where their kind are said to go punctually to die. There are enough of the dead; they outnumber the living; and there those trite169 truths burst with life and drum upon the tympanum with ambiguous fatal voices. At the end of this many-barrowed moor170, yet not in it, there is a solitary circle of grey stones, where the cry of the past is less vociferous171, less bewildering, than on the moor itself, but more intense. Nineteen tall, grey stones stand round a taller, pointed90 one that is heavily bowed, amidst long grass and bracken and furze. A track passes close by, but does not enter the circle; the grass is unbent except by the weight of its bloom. It bears a name that connects it with the assembling and rivalry173 of the bards of Britain. Here, under the sky, they met, leaning upon the stones, tall, fair men of peace, but half-warriors, whose songs could change ploughshare into sword. Here they met, and the growth of the grass, the perfection of the stones (except that one stoops as with age), and the silence, suggest that since the last bard64 left it, in robe of blue or white or green—the colours of sky and cloud and grass upon this fair day—the circle has been unmolested, and the law obeyed which forbade any but a bard to enter it. Sky-blue was the colour of a chief bard’s robe, emblematic175 of peace and heavenly calm, and of unchangeableness. White, the colour of the Druid’s dress, was the emblem174 of light, and of its correlatives, purity of conduct, wisdom, and piety176. Green was the colour of the youthful ovate’s robe, for it was the emblem of growth. Their uniformity of colour signified perfect truth. And the inscription upon the chair of the bards of Beisgawen was, “Nothing is that is not for ever and ever.” Blue and white and green, peace and light and[161] growth—“Nothing is that is not for ever and ever”—these things and the blue sky, the white, cloudy hall of the sun, and the green bough15 and grass, hallowed the ancient stones, and clearer than any vision of tall bards in the morning of the world was the tranquil177 delight of being thus “teased out of time” in the presence of this ancientness.
It is strange to pass from these monumental moors178 straight to the sea which records the moments, not the years or the centuries. In fine weather especially its colour—when, for example, it is faintly corrugated and of a blue that melts towards the horizon into such a hue179 that it is indistinguishable from the violet wall of dawn—is a perpetual astonishment180 on account of its unearthliness and evanescence. The mind does not at once accept the fact that here underneath181 our eyes is, as it were, another sky. The physical act of looking up induces a special mood of solemnity and veneration182, and during the act the eyes meet with a fitting object in the stainless183 heavens. Looking down we are used to seeing the earth, the road, the footpath, the floor, the hearth184; but when, instead, it is the sea and not any of these things, although our feet are on firm land, the solemnity is of another kind. In its anger the sea becomes humanized or animalized: we see resemblances to familiar things. There is, for instance, an hour sometimes after sunset, when the grey sky coldly lights the lines of white plumes185 on a steely sea, and they have an inevitable186 likeness187 to a trampling188 chivalry189 that charges upon a foe190. But a calm sea is incomparable except to moods of the mind. It is then as remote from the earth and earthly things as the sky, and the remoteness is the more astonishing because it is almost within our[162] grasp. It is no wonder that a great idea was expressed by the fortunate islands in the sea. The youthfulness, the incorruptibility of the sea, continually renewing itself, the same from generation to generation, prepares it as a fit sanctuary191 of the immortal192 dead. So at least we are apt to think at certain times, coming from the heavy, scarred, tormented193 earth to that immense a?ry plain of peacock blue. And yet at other times that same unearthliness will suggest quite other thoughts. It has not changed and shrunken and grown like the earth; it is not sun-warmed: it is a monster that has lain unmoved by time, sleeping and moaning outside the gates within which men and animals have become what they are. Actually that cold fatal element and its myriad122 population without a sound brings a wistfulness into the mind as if it could feel back and dimly recall the dawn of time when the sea was incomprehensible and impassable, when the earth had but lately risen out of the waters and was yet again to descend beneath: it becomes a type of the waste where everything is unknown or uncertain except death, pouring into the brain the thoughts that men have had on looking out over untrodden mountain, forest, swamp, in the drizzling194 dawn of the world. The sea is exactly what it was when mountain, forest, swamp were imperturbable195 enemies, and the sight of it restores the ancient fear. I remember one dawn above all others when this restoration was complete. When it was yet dark the wind rose gustily196 under a low grey sky and a lark sang amidst the moan of gorse and the creak of gates and the deeply-taken breath of the tide at the full. Nor was it yet light when the gulls began to wheel and wind and float with a motion like foam on a whirlpool or inter[163]woven snow. They wheeled about the masts of fishing-boats that nodded and kissed and crossed in a steep cove of crags whose black edges were slavered by the foam of the dark sea; and there were no men among the boats or about the grey houses that looked past the walls of the cove to the grim staircase and sea-doors of a black headland, whose perpendicular197 rocks stood up far out of the reach of the wings fashioned in the likeness of gigantic idols198. The higher crags were bushy and scaly199 with lichen, and they were cushioned upon thrift and bird’s-foot trefoil and white bladder campion. It was a bristling200 sea, not in the least stormy, but bristling, dark and cold through the slow colourless dawn, dark and cold and immense; and at the edge of it the earth knelt, offering up the music of a small flitting bird and the beauty of small flowers, white and gold, to those idols. They were terrible enough. But the sea was more terrible; for it was the god of whom those rocks were the poor childish images, and it seemed that the god had just then disclosed his true nature and hence the pitiful loveliness of the flowers, the pitiful sweetness of the bird that sang among the rocks at the margin201 of the kind earth.
Now and then the sea will startle by some resemblance to the earth. Thus I have come unexpectedly in sight of it on a strange coast and have not known that it was the sea. A gale202 from the north-east was blowing, and it was late afternoon in mid-winter. The land was sandy moorland, treeless and dark with iron-coloured heather. A mile away I saw rising up into the sky what seemed a peaty mountain in Cardiganshire, as it would be in a tempest of rain, and it was only when I was near the cliff and could see the three long walls of white waves towards[164] the shore that I knew it was the sea. More common is the calm dark-blue sea in mid-summer, over which go criss-cross bands of lighter203 hue, like pale moorland paths winding80 about a moor.
In a stern land like Cornwall that so often refuses the consolations204 of grass and herb and tree, the relentings are the more gracious. These are to be found in a whole valley where there are sloping fields of corn and grass divided by green hedges, and woods rich and misty and warm, and the bones of the land are buried away until it ends in a bay where high and cavernous dark rocks stand on either side of blue water and level sand. Often all the sweetness of the country round seems to have run into one great roadside hedge as dewdrops collect in the bosom of a leaf. The stones of the original wall are themselves deeply hidden in turf, or from the crevices205 ferns descend and the pale blooms of pennywort rise up; the lichen is furry206 and the yellow or pink stonecrop is neat and dense207; ivy208 climbs closely up and hangs down in loose array. Up from the top of the wall or mound rise bramble and gorse and woodbine over them, or brier and thorn and woodbine again; and the tallest and massiest of foxgloves cleave209 through these with their bells, half a hundred of them in rows five deep already open and as many more yet in bud, dense as grapes, dewy, murmurous210; and below the foxgloves are slender parsleys, rough wood sage211 and poppies. At the foot of the wall, between it and the road, is a grassy strip, where the yarrow grows feathery with gilded212 cinquefoil and tormentil—or above nettles214 as dense as corn rise large discs of white hog215 parsnip flower, a coarse and often dirty flower that has a dry smell of summer—or bramble and[165] brier arch this way and that their green and rosy and purple stems, bright leaves, flowers pink and white. Only the shin-breaking Cornish stiles of stone, interrupting the hedge and giving a view of barren hills or craggy-sided sea, destroy the illusion created by this exuberance216 of herb and bush and the perfume of woodbine and rose.
Nowhere is the stateliness or grace or privacy of trees more conspicuous217 than about the Cornish towns and farms. The tall round-topped elms above Padstow, for example, would be natural and acceptable unconsciously elsewhere; but above those crossing lines of roof they have an indescribable benevolence218. The farmhouses220 are usually square, dry and grey, being built of slate with grey-slated roofs painted by lichen; some are whitewashed222; in some, indeed, the stones are of many greys and blues223, with yellowish and reddish tinges225, hard, but warm in the sun and comforting to look at when close to the sea and some ruinous promontory; few are screened by ivy or climbing rose. The farm buildings are of the same kind, relieved by yellow straw, the many hues226 of hay, the purple bracken stacks, the dark peat. The gates are coarse and mean, of iron or of cheap or rough wood, lightly made, patched, held together by string, and owing their only charm to the chance use of the curved ribs227 of ships as gate-posts. But to many of the buildings sycamore and ash and apple trees bent172 above tall grass lend their beauty of line, of mass, of colour, of shade, of sound and of many motions. I can never forget the rows of ash trees, the breezy sycamores and the tamarisks by ancient Harlyn, with its barrows on the hill, its ruins of chapel228 and church among rushes and poppies, its little oak wood by the sandy river mouth where the men of[166] old time buried their dead, the poppied corn, the white gulls and their black shadows wheeling over sunny turf. The file of lean woods seen between Perranporth and St. Agnes inland. The sycamores above the farm near Towan cross where the road dips and the deep furrow59 of a little valley winds, with hay upon its slopes, out to sea. The green wood, long and beautiful, below the gentle brown slopes of Hudder Down. The several companies of trees in the valley by the Red River, and the white farm of Reskajeage near by, under ash and elm, sycamore and wych-elm and lime, a rough orchard229 of apples and a gnarled squat230 medlar to one side—the trees grouped as human figures are when they begin to move after some tense episode. The wych-elm, sycamore and ash round the tower of Gwithian church and in amongst the few thatched cottages alongside the yellow towans and violet sea. In a land of deserted roofless houses with solid chimneys that no man wants, the narrow copse of small spindly oaks upholding with bare crooked232 stems as of stone a screen of leaves, above a brooklet233 that runs to the sea through dense rush and foxglove and thistle where the sedge-warbler sings. The long low mound of green wood nearest to Land’s End. Between Tregothal and Bosfranken, the wet copse in a narrow valley, where red campion and bracken and bramble are unpenetrated among flowery elders, sallows, thorns and sycamores. A farm that has a water-mill and water gloomy and crystal under sycamore and ash. The thin halting procession of almost branchless trees on the ridge of the Beacon153 above Sancreed—a procession that seems even at mid-day to move in another world, in the world and in the age of the stone circles and cairns and cromlechs of the moor beyond.[167] The sycamore and elder that surround and tower above Tregonebris near Boscawen Un. The avenue of ash and elm and wych-elm and sycamore, very close together, leading from grey Nancothan mill, where the dark-brown water mingles234 its noise with the rustling235 trees. The wych-elms and golden-fruited sycamores about the roads near St. Hilary, and the long avenue of ash up to the church itself, and the elms through which the evening music floats, amidst the smell of hay, in a misty mountained sunset.
Under the flaming fleeces of a precipitous sky, in a windless hush236 and at low tide, I descended to a narrow distinct valley just where a stream ran clear and slow through level sands to a bay, between headlands of rocks and of caves among the rocks. The sides of the valley near the sea were high and steep and of grass until their abrupt126 end in a low but perpendicular wall of rock just above the river sands. Inland the valley began to wind and at the bend trees came darkly trooping down the slopes to the water. Immediately opposite the ford—the wet sands being unscathed by any foot or hoof237 or wheel—a tributary238 ran into the river through a gorge239 of its own. It was a gorge not above a hundred feet across, and its floor was of sand save where the brook17 was running down, and this floor was all in shadow because the banks were clothed in thick underwood and in ash, sycamore, wych-elm and oak meeting overhead. And in these sands also there was no footprint save of the retreated sea. There was no house, nor wall, nor road. And there was no sound in the caverns240 of foliage except one call of a cuckoo as I entered and the warbling of a blackbird that mused241 in the oaks and then laughed and was silent and mused[168] again and filled the mind with the fairest images of solitude—solitude where a maid, thinking of naught242, unthought of, unseen, combs out her yellow hair and lets her spirit slip down into the tresses—where a man fearful of his kind ascends243 out of the deeps of himself so that his eyes look bravely and his face unstiffens and unwrinkles and his motion and gesture is fast and free—where a child walks and stops and runs and sings in careless joy that takes him winding far out into abysses of eternity244 and makes him free of them, so that years afterward245 the hour and place and sky return, and the eternity on which they opened as a casement246, but not the child, not the joy.
I like trees for the cool evening voices of their many leaves, for their cloudy forms linked to earth by stately stems—for the pale lifting of the sycamore leaves in breezes and also their drooping247, hushed and massed repose248, for the myriad division of the light ash leaves—for their straight pillars and for the twisted branch work, for their still shade and their rippling249 or calm shimmering250 or dimly glowing light, for the quicksilver drip of dawn, for their solemnity and their dancing, for all their sounds and motions—their slow-heaved sighs, their nocturnal murmurs251, their fitful fingerings at thunder time, their swishing and tossing and hissing252 in violent rain, the roar of their congregations before the south-west wind when it seems that they must lift up the land and fly away with it, for their rustlings of welcome in harvest heat—for their kindliness253 and their serene254 remoteness and inhumanity, and especially the massiest of the trees that have also the glory of motion, the sycamores, which are the chief tree of Cornwall, as the beeches and yews255 are[169] of the Downs, the oaks of the Weald, the elms of the Wiltshire vales.
Before I part from trees I should like to mention those of mid-Somerset—and above all, the elms. I am thinking of them as they are at noon on the hottest days of haymaking at the end of June. The sky is hot, its pale blue without pity and changing to a yellow of mist near the horizon. The land is level and all of grass, and where the hay is not spread in swathes the grass is almost invisible for the daisies on its motionless surface. Here and there the mower256 whirrs and seems natural music, like the grasshopper’s, of the burning earth. Through the levels wind the heavy-topped grey willows257 of a hidden stream. In the hedges and in the wide fields and about the still, silent farmhouses of stone there are many elms. They are tall and slender despite their full mounded summits. They cast no shade. In the great heat their green is all but grey, and their leaves are lost in the mist which their mingling258 creates. Grey-hooded, grey-mantled, they seem to be stealing away over the fields to the sanctuary of the dark-wooded hills, low and round and lapped entirely259 in leaves, which stand in the mist at the edge of the plain—to be leaving that plain to the possession of the whirring mower and the sun of almighty260 summer.
Sycamores solemnized the Cornish farm in the twilight261, where I asked the farmer’s wife if she could let us have two beds for the night. She stood in the doorway262, hands on hips140, watching her grandchildren’s last excited minutes of play in the rickyard.
“He’s the master,” she replied, pointing to the farmer who was talking to his carter, between the rickyard and the door, under the sycamores.
[170]
“Two beds?”
“That is what we should like,” said my friend and I.
“What do you want with two beds?” he asked with a tinge224 of scorn as well as of pity in his frank amusement. “My missus and I have only had one bed these forty years.”
Here he laughed so gaily263 that he could not have embarrassed the very devil of puritanism, and turning to his man he called forth264 a deep bass14 laughter and from his wife a peal51 that shook her arms so that she raised them to the sides of the porch for better support; the children also turned their laughter our way.
“But perhaps one of you kicks in his sleep?... We don’t.... Come inside. I dare say you are tired.... Good-night, John. Now, children, up with you.”
I think they were the most excellent pair of man and woman I ever saw. Both were of a splendid physical type, she the more energetic, black-haired, black-eyed, plump and tall and straight; he the more enduring, fair-haired and bearded, blue-eyed, hardly her equal in height, certainly not in words. In forty years neither had overpowered the other. They had not even agreed to take separate paths, but like two school-boys, new friends, they could afford to contend together in opinions without fear of damage or of lazy truce265. He had ploughed and sowed and reaped: she had borne him seven children, had baked and churned and stitched. They had loved sweet things together, and, with curses at times, their children and the land. Physical strength and purity—that were in them the whole of morality—seemed to have given them that equality with the conditions of life which philosophy has[171] done nothing but talk about. They of all men and women had perhaps jarred least upon the music of the spheres. They had the right and power to live, and the end was laughter.
In all those years they had been separated but once. Until four years ago she had not been out of Cornwall except to bury her mother, who had suddenly died in London. Two hundred pounds fell to her share on that death and the money arrived one morning after the harvest thanksgiving. For a week she continued to go about her work in the old way save that she sent rather hurriedly for a daughter who had just left her place as cook in Exeter. At the end of the week, having stored the apples and shown her daughter how to use the separator, she walked in to Penzance in her best clothes but without even a handbag; her husband was out with his gun. By the next day she was at Liverpool. She sent off a picture postcard, with a little note written by the shopkeeper, saying that she would be back by Christmas, and telling her husband to sell the old bull. Then she sailed for New York. She saw Niagara; she visited her nephew, John Davy, at Cincinnati; she spent two weeks in railway travelling west and south, and saw the Indians. Four days before Christmas she was back in the rickyard, driving before her a young bull and carrying in her hand a bunch of maize266.
“Well, Ann, you’re back before your time,” said her husband, after praising the beast.
“Suppose you wait till to-morrow,” proposed Sam Davy.
[172]
“I think I will, for I can hear that Mary is behind with the separator.”
“She’s a good girl, but she hasn’t got your patience, my dear.”
“Oh, here, Sam, here’s the change,” she said, giving him the bunch of maize.
In Cornwall many of the women looked less English than the men. The noticeable men were fair-haired and, of fair complexion52, blue-eyed and rather small-headed, upright and of good bearing. The noticeable women had black hair, pale, seldom swarthy, faces, very dark eyes. Perhaps the eyes were more foreign than anything else in them: they were singularly immobile and seldom changed in expression with their voices. Several of the dark-eyed, black-haired women had a beauty of a fearless character like gypsy women, in their movement and expression. But the wives of small farmers and miners on piecework look old very soon and are puckered267 and shadowy in the face. Some of these middle-aged268 and old women suggested an early and barbarous generation. The eyes were small and deep-set, and the face narrowed forward like an animal’s; which gave the whole a peering expression of suspicion and even alarm. The eyes of most human beings are causes of bewilderment and dismay if curiously269 looked at; but the strangest I ever saw were in an old Cornish woman. They were black and round as a child’s, with a cold brightness that made them seem not of the substance of other eyes, but like a stone. They were set in a narrow, bony face of parchment among grey hair crisp and disarrayed270. I saw them only for a few[173] minutes while I asked a few questions about the way, and it was as much as I could do to keep up the conversation, so much did those motionless eyes invite me to plunge132 into an abyss of human personality—such intense loneliness and strangeness did they create, since they proclaimed shrilly271 and clearly that beyond a desire to be fed and clothed we had nothing in common. Had they peered up at me out of a cromlech or hut at Bosporthennis I could not have been more puzzled and surprised.
Men and women were hospitable272 and ready to smile as the Welsh are; and they have an alluring273 na?veté as well as some righteousness. One family was excessively virtuous274 or had a wish to appear so: I do not know which alternative to like the less, since it was in a matter of game. They rented land on a large estate and had a right to the rabbits: the hares were sacred to the great landowner. The farmer’s wife assured me that one of her sons had lately brought in a lame275 hare and proposed to put it out of its pain, but that she had said: “No, take it out and let it die outside anywhere. The best thing is to be afraid in things of this kind and then you won’t go wrong.” Doing much the same kind or quantity of manual work as their husbands and being much out of doors, the women’s manners were confident and free. Their speech was as a rule fluent and grammatical and clearly delivered, with less accent than in any part of England. Coming into a mining village one day and wanting tea, I asked a woman who was drawing water from a farmyard well if she could make me some, thinking she was the farmer’s wife. She said she would, but took me to one of a small row of cottages over the way,[174] where her husband was half-naked in the midst of his Saturday wash. Taking no notice of him she led me into the sitting-room276 and, with a huge loaf held like a violin, began buttering and cutting thin slices while she talked to me, to the little children and to her husband, from the adjacent kitchen. She was tall, straight as a pillar, black-haired, with clear untanned but slightly swarthy skin, black eyes, kindly277 gleaming cheeks and red lips smiling above her broad breast and hips. Her clothes were black but in rags that hardly clung to her shoulders and waist. She was barely five and twenty, but had six young children about her, one in a cradle by the hearth and another still crawling at her feet. Her only embarrassment278 came when I asked to pay for my tea—she began adding up the cost, a pennyworth of bread and butter, a halfpennyworth of tea, etc.! The kitchen consisted simply of a large grate and baking oven, plain tables and chairs on a flagged floor. But the sitting-room was a museum—with photographs of a volunteer corps279, of friends and relations on the wall over the fire; foxgloves in jam-pots surrounded by green crinkled paper in the fireplace; on the mantelpiece, cheap little vases and scraps280 of ore and more photographs. On the walls were three pictures: one of two well-dressed children being timidly inspected by fallow deer; another of a grandmother showing a book to a child whose attention is diverted by the frolics of two kittens at her side; and a third of Jesus, bleeding and crowned with thorns, high on a cross over a marble city beneath a romantic forest ridge, behind which was the conflagration281 of a crimson sunset.
Other sitting-rooms were similarly adorned282, with the addition of a picture of John Wesley as a child escaping[175] from the window of a burning house, with many anxious men holding up their hands from below. The smell of flowers and of sun-warmed furniture and old upholstery mingles in such rooms.
But the kitchens are often as charming as in Wales. I remember one especially near Carn Galver. The farmhouse219 was of whitened stone under a steep thatch231. In front were fuchsia trees in the corner of a stony283 yard; to one side, the haystacks and piles of furze and bracken and peat. The farmer’s wife was carrying peat on an iron hook into the kitchen and I followed her. A pan of yellow scalded cream stood inside. The fireplace was a little room in itself, with seats at each side and a little fire of wood and three upright turves in one corner of the great stone hearth: over the fire the kettle boiled. Horse ornaments284 of polished brass285 surmounted286 the fireplace. The wallpaper had given up its pattern long since to a smoky uneven287 gold; nailed to it were calendars and lists of fairs and sales; against it were two small tables, one to support a Bible and an almanac, the other spread with a white cloth on which was a plate and a bowl of cream. Behind the door and between it and the fire was a high-backed settle of dark wood, with elbow-rests. The floor was flagged and sanded. The light came in through a little square window on to the Bible by the opposite wall, and through the open door on to the figure of the housewife, a woman of forty. A delicate white face shone beneath a broad untrimmed straw hat that was tied tightly under her chin so as to hide her ears and most of her black hair. Her black skirt was kilted up behind; a white apron288 contrasted with black shoes, black stockings and black clothes. At first her face was hardly seen,[176] not only because but a part of it emerged from the shell of her hat, but because the spirit that emanated289 from it was more than the colour and features and so much in harmony with the sea and crag and moor and dolmen of her land. It is evading290 an insuperable difficulty to say that this spirit was not so much human as fay. It was the spirit of which her milky291 complexion, the bright black eyes, white teeth and fine red lips of her readily smiling and na?vely watching fearless face, her slender form, her light and rapid movements upon small feet, were only the more obvious expressions. Her spirit danced before her—not quite visibly, not quite audibly—as she moved or spoke or merely smiled; if it could have been seen it would have been a little singing white flame changing to blue and crimson in its perpetual flickering292. It was a spirit of laughter, of laughter unquenchable since the beginning of time, of laughter in spite of and because of all things, the laughter of life like a jewel in desolate293 places. It was a spirit most ancient and yet childlike, birdlike: it belonged to a world outside any which other human beings ever seemed to touch, but the laughter in it made it friendly, for it was far deeper than humour, it was gaiety of heart. Her goings to and fro on those light feet had the grace, quickness, suddenness of a bird, of a wren294 that slips from twig295 to twig and jets out its needle of song, of a moorhen flicking296 its tail and hooting297 sharply. Her laugh startled and delighted like the laugh of the woodpecker as it leaps across the glades—like the whistling of birds up amongst the dark clouds and the moon. But most of all she called to mind the meadow pipit of her own crags, that rises from green ledges out over the sea and then, falling slantwise with body curved like a[177] crescent, utters his passionate298 pulsating299 song, so rapid and passionate that it seems impossible and unfit that it should end except in death, yet suddenly ceasing as it lands again upon the samphire or the thrift. The spirit was as quicksilver in the corners of her eyes, as quicksilver in the heart. Such a maid she must have been as the bard would have thought to send out the thrush to woo for him, when he heard the bird of ermine breast singing from the new-leaved hazel at dawn, on the edge of a brook among the steep woods—singing artfully with a voice like a silver bell—solemnly, too, so as to seem to be performing a sacrifice—and amorously300, bringing balm to lovers’ hearts and inspiring the bard to send by him a message to the sun of all maidens301 that she, white as the snow of the first winter night, should come out to the green woods to him. She had lived for generations on the moor, for generations upon generations, and this was what she had gained from heather and furze and crag and seawind and sunshine tempered by no trees—inextinguishable laughter. But she was inarticulate. She milked the cows, made butter, baked bread, kept the peat fire burning and tended her children. When she talked, I asked for more cream. Perhaps after several more generations have passed she will be a poet and astonish the world with a moorland laughter of words that endure.
Everything in that house was old or smooth and bright with use, and the hollowed threshold of the doorway in the sun put me in mind of a hundred old things and of their goodliness to mortal eyes—the wrecked302 ship’s ribs, their bolt-holes rusty, that stand among nettles as gate-posts—the worn dark stones that rock to the tread among[178] the ripples303 of an umbrageous304 ford—many a polished stile and gate—the group of rigid305 but still gracious bowery thorns dotted with crimson haws in the middle of a meadow, their holes and lower branches rubbed hard and smooth and ruddy like iron by the cows—the ash staff beginning to bend like its master, the old man upon the roads who once wore scarlet306 and wound the horn for Mr. ——’s hounds. Odd it is how old use sanctifies a little thing. There was once a hut where a good man, but a poor and a weak and unwise, stayed all one fair summer and talked of English roads—he was a lord of the roads, at least of South Country roads—and of ships, which he knew. Now on the first night of his stay, needing a candlestick he kicked off the top of a pointed wooden paling, so as to make a five-angled piece on which he stuck the candle in its own grease. All through his stay he used the candlestick, when he read the Divina Commedia and Pantagruel and Henry Brocken and recollected307 airs of Italy and Spain, amidst the sound of nightjars and two leafy streams: the light flickered308 out as he mused about the open sea, calm but boundless and without known harbour, on which he was drifting cheerfully, regardless of Time, pied with nights and days. The hut was burnt and the man went—to drown a little afterwards with a hundred unlike himself in the sea—but among nettle213 and dock the candlestick was picked up safe. It had broken off straight and the simple shape was pleasant; it was dark with age; along with the mound and little pillar of wax remaining it had the shape of a natural thing; and it was his.
Animate as well as inanimate things are open to this sanctification by age or use. I am not here thinking of[179] ceremonious use—for which I have small natural respect, so that I have been denied the power of appreciating either a great religious pomp or the dancing of Mademoiselle Genée. But some men, particularly sailors and field labourers, but also navvies and others who work heavily with their hands, have this glory of use. Their faces, their clothes, their natures all appear to act and speak harmoniously309, so that they cause a strong impression of personality which is to be deeply enjoyed in a world of masks, especially of black clerical masks. One of the best examples of this kind was a gamekeeper who daily preceded me by twenty or thirty yards in a morning walk up through a steep wood of beeches. He was a short, stiffly-built and stoutish310 man who wore a cap, thick skirted coat and breeches, leather gaiters and heavy boots, all patched and stained, all of nearly the same colour as his lightish-brown hair and weathered skin, but not so dark as the gun over his shoulder. The shades of this colour were countless and made up like the colour of a field of ripe wheat, which they would have resembled had they not been liberally dusted all over, just as his brown beard was grizzled. He went slowly up, swinging slightly at the shoulders and always smoking a pipe of strong shag tobacco of which the fumes311 hovered312 in the moist air with inexpressible sweetness and a good brown savour: if I may say so, the fit emanation of the brown woodland man who, when he stood still, looked like the stump313 of a tree.
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1
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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5
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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6
footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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7
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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8
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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9
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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14
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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15
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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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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deviated
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| v.偏离，越轨( deviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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tolls
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| （缓慢而有规律的）钟声( toll的名词复数 )； 通行费； 损耗； （战争、灾难等造成的）毁坏 | |
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rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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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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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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gnaws
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| 咬( gnaw的第三人称单数 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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43
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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44
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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45
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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46
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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47
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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48
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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49
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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50
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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51
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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52
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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53
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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54
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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55
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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56
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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57
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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58
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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59
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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60
furrowing
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的现在分词 ) | |
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61
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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62
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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63
contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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64
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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65
bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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66
zoologist
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| n.动物学家 | |
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67
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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68
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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69
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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70
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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71
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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72
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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73
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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74
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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75
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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76
grasshopper
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| n.蚱蜢，蝗虫，蚂蚱 | |
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77
grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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78
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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79
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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80
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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81
streaked
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|
| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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82
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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83
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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84
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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85
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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86
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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87
mammoth
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|
| n.长毛象；adj.长毛象似的，巨大的 | |
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88
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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89
embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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90
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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91
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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92
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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93
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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94
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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95
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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96
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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97
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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98
rusticity
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| n.乡村的特点、风格或气息 | |
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99
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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100
surmounts
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| 战胜( surmount的第三人称单数 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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101
cormorant
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| n.鸬鹚，贪婪的人 | |
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102
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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103
badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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104
beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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105
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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106
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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107
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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108
gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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109
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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110
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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111
everlasting
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|
| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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112
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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113
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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114
ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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115
corrugated
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|
| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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116
foamy
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|
| adj.全是泡沫的，泡沫的，起泡沫的 | |
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117
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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118
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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119
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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120
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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121
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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122
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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123
fragrances
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| n.芳香，香味( fragrance的名词复数 )；香水 | |
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124
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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125
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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126
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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127
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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128
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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129
coves
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| n.小海湾( cove的名词复数 )；家伙 | |
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130
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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131
plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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132
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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133
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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134
boulders
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|
| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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135
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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136
mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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137
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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138
briny
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| adj.盐水的；很咸的；n.海洋 | |
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139
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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140
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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141
smuggler
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| n.走私者 | |
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142
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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143
pinnacled
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| 小尖塔般耸立的，顶处的 | |
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144
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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145
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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146
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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147
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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148
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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149
annihilated
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|
| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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150
wayfaring
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| adj.旅行的n.徒步旅行 | |
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151
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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152
beacons
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| 灯塔( beacon的名词复数 )； 烽火； 指路明灯； 无线电台或发射台 | |
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153
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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154
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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155
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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156
jut
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| v.突出；n.突出，突出物 | |
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157
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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158
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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159
accentuate
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| v.着重，强调 | |
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160
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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161
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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162
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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163
swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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164
lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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165
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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166
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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167
bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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168
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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169
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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170
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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171
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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172
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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173
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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174
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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175
emblematic
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| adj.象征的，可当标志的；象征性 | |
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176
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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177
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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178
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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179
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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180
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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181
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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182
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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183
stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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184
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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185
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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186
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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187
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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188
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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189
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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190
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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191
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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192
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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193
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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194
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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195
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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196
gustily
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| adv.暴风地，狂风地 | |
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197
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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198
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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199
scaly
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| adj.鱼鳞状的；干燥粗糙的 | |
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200
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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201
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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202
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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203
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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204
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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205
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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206
furry
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| adj.毛皮的；似毛皮的；毛皮制的 | |
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207
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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208
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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209
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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210
murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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211
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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212
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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213
nettle
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| n.荨麻；v.烦忧，激恼 | |
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214
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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215
hog
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| n.猪；馋嘴贪吃的人；vt.把…占为己有，独占 | |
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216
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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217
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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218
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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219
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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220
farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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221
whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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222
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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223
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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224
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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225
tinges
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| n.细微的色彩，一丝痕迹( tinge的名词复数 ) | |
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226
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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227
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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228
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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229
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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230
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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231
thatch
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|
| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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232
crooked
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|
| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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233
brooklet
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| n. 细流, 小河 | |
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234
mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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235
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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236
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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237
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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238
tributary
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|
| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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239
gorge
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|
| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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240
caverns
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|
| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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241
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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242
naught
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|
| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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243
ascends
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|
| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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244
eternity
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|
| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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245
afterward
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|
| adv.后来；以后 | |
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246
casement
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|
| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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247
drooping
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|
| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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248
repose
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|
| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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249
rippling
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|
| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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250
shimmering
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|
| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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251
murmurs
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|
| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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252
hissing
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|
| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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253
kindliness
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|
| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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254
serene
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|
| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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255
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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256
mower
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|
| n.割草机 | |
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257
willows
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|
| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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258
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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259
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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260
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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261
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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262
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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263
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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264
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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265
truce
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|
| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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266
maize
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| n.玉米 | |
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267
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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268
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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269
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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270
disarrayed
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| vt.使混乱（disarray的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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271
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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272
hospitable
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|
| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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273
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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274
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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275
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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276
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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277
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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278
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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279
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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280
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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281
conflagration
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|
| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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282
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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283
stony
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|
| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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284
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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285
brass
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|
| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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286
surmounted
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|
| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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287
uneven
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|
| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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288
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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289
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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290
evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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291
milky
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|
| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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292
flickering
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|
| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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293
desolate
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|
| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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294
wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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295
twig
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|
| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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296
flicking
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的现在分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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297
hooting
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|
| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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298
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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299
pulsating
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|
| adj.搏动的，脉冲的v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的现在分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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300
amorously
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| adv.好色地，妖艳地；脉；脉脉；眽眽 | |
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301
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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302
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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303
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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304
umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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305
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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306
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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307
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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308
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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309
harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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310
stoutish
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| 略胖的 | |
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311
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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312
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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313
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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