PRE-EMINENCE OF ENGLAND AS A PLACE OF COUNTRY RESIDENCE.
Let every man who has a sufficiency for the enjoyment1 of life, thank heaven most fervently2 that he lives in this country and age. They may tell us of the beauty of southern skies, and the softness of southern climates; but where is the land which a man would rather choose to call himself a native of—because it combines more of the requisites3 for a happy and useful existence; more of the moral, social, and intellectual advantages, without which fair skies or soft climates would become dolorous4, or at best, indifferent? I say, let every man gratefully rejoice, who has the means of commanding the full blessings5 of English life,—for alas6! there are thousands and millions of our countrymen who possess but a scanty7 portion of these; whose lives are too long and continuous a course[2] of toil8 and anxiety to permit them even to look round them and see how vast are the powers of enjoyment in this country, and how few of those sources of ease, comfort, and refined pleasure are within their reach. I trust a better day is coming to this portion of our population; that many circumstances are working together to confer on the toiling9 children of these kingdoms the social rewards which their unwearied industry so richly merits; but for those who already hold in their hands the golden key, where is the country like England? If we are naturally proud of making a portion of a mighty10 and a glorious kingdom, where is the kingdom like England? It is a land of which the most ambitious or magnanimous spirit may well say with a high emotion—“That is my country!” Over what an extent of the earth it stretches its territories; over what swarming11 and diversified12 millions it extends its sceptre! On every side of the globe, lie its outspread regions; under every aspect of heaven, walk its free or tributary13 people. In the West Indies; in the vaster dominions14 of the East; in America and Australia; through each wide continent, and many a fair island! But its political and moral power extends even far beyond these. What nation is there, however great, that does not look with breathless anxiety to the movements of England; what country is not bound up with it in the strongest interests and hopes; what country is there which does not feel the influence of its moral energy? Through all the cities and forests of Republican America, the spirit of England, as well as its language, lives and glows. France, Germany, and even Russia to the depths of its frozen heart, feel the emanations of its free and popular institutions. Every pulse of love which beats here—every principle of justice that is more clearly recognised—every sentiment of Christianity that is elevated on the broad basis of the human heart, hence spreads through the earth as from a centre of moral life, and produces in the remotest regions its portion of civilization.
Hence do I love my country!—and partake
Of kindred agitations16 for her sake;
She visits oftentimes my midnight dream;
Her glory meets me with the earliest beam
Of light, which tells that morning is awake.—Wordsworth.
It is something to make a part, however small, of such a[3] nation. It is something to feel that you have such a scope of power and beneficence in the earth. But when you add to this, the food laid up for the heart and the intellect in this island—the wealth of literature and science; the spirit of freedom in which they are nourished, and by which they are prosecuted17; the sound religious feeling which has always distinguished18 it as a nation; the philanthropic institutions that exist in it—every true heart must felicitate itself that its lot is cast in this kingdom.
Such are the moral, political, and intellectual advantages of English life, which must make any noble-minded and reflecting man feel, as he considers his position in the scale of humanity, that he is “a citizen of no mean city.” But our social advantages are not a whit19 behind these. Can any state of society be well conceived, on which the arts and sciences, literature, and general knowledge, can shed more social conveniences and refined enjoyments20? In our houses, in our furniture, in all the materials for our dresses, in the apparatus21 for our tables and the endless variety of good things by which they are supplied, for which every region has been traversed, and every art in bringing them home, or raising them at home, has been exerted; in books and paintings; in the wonderful provision and accumulation of every article in our shops, that the real wants or the most fanciful desires of men or women may seek for; in our gardens, roads, the beautiful and affluent22 cultivation23 of the country,—what nation is there, or has there been, which can for a moment bear a comparison with England?
And this we may ask, not merely as it respects gas, steam, the marvellous developments of chemistry and electro-magnetism, by which the mode and embellishment of our existence have been so much changed already, and which promise yet changes too vast to be readily familiarized to the imagination,—but of a thousand other privileges and conveniences in which England is pre-eminent. It is, however, to our rural life that we are about to devote our attention; and it is in rural life that the superiority of England is, perhaps, more striking, than in any other respect. Over the whole face of our country the charm of a refined existence is diffused25. There is nothing which strikes foreigners so much as the beauty[4] of our country abodes27, and the peculiarity28 of our country life. The elegances29, the arts, and refinements30 of the city, are carried out and blended, from end to end of the island, so beautifully with the peaceful simplicity31 of the country, that nothing excites more the admiration32 of strangers than those rural paradises, the halls, castles, abbeys, lodges33, and cottages, in which our nobility and gentry34 spend more or less of every year. Let Prince Pückler Muskau, Washington Irving, Willis, Count Pecchio, Rice, and others, tell you how beautiful, in their eyes, appeared the parks, lawns, fields, and the whole country of England, cultivated like a garden. It is true that our climate is not to be boasted of for its perpetual serenity35. It has had no lack of abuse, both from our own countrymen and others. We are none of us without a pretty lively memory of its freaks and changes, its mists and tempests; its winters wild as some of late, and its springs that are often so tardy36 in their arrival, that they find summer standing37 in the gate to tell them they are no longer wanted. All this we know; yet which of us is not ready to forgive all this, and to say with a full heart,
England, with all thy faults, I love thee still!
Which of us is not grateful and discerning enough to remember, that even our fickle38 and imperfect climate has qualities to which England owes much of its glory, and we, many a proud feeling and victorious39 energy? Which of us can forget, that this abused climate, is that which has not enervated40 by its heats, has not seduced41 by its amenities42, has not depopulated by its malaria43, so that under its baneful44 influence we have become feeble, listless, reckless of honour or virtue45; the mean, the slothful, the crouching46 slaves of barbarians47, or even effeminate despots: it is that which has done none of these things; produced no such effects as these; but it is that which has raised millions of frames strong and muscular and combatant, and enduring as the oaks of its rocky hills; that has nerved those frames to the contempt alike of danger and effeminacy; and has quickened them with hearts full of godlike aspirations48 after a virtuous49 glory. What a long line—what ages after ages, of invincible50 heroes, of dauntless martyrs51 for freedom and religion, of solemn sages52 and lawgivers, of philosophers and poets, men sober, and prescient, and splendid in all their[5] endowments as any country ever produced;—what a line of these has flourished amid the glooms and severities of this abused climate; and while Italy has sunk into subjection, and Greece has lain waste beneath the feet of the Turk—has piled up by a succession of matchless endeavours the fame and power of England, to the height of its present greatness.
In our halls is hung
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakspeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held. In every thing we are sprung
Of earth’s best blood, have titles manifold.
And will any man tell me that the spirit of our climate has had nothing to do with begetting54 and nourishing the energy which has borne on to immortality55 these great men; which has quickened us with “earth’s best blood;” which has given us “titles manifold?” The gloom and desolate57 majesty58 of autumn—the wild magnificence of thunder-storms, with their vivid lightnings, their awful uproar59, the lurid60 darkness of their clouds, and the outshining of rainbows—have these had no effect on the meditations61 of divines and the songs of poets? Has the soul-concentrating power of winter driven our writers into their closets in vain? Have the fireside festivities of our darkest season; have the blazing yule-clog, and the merriment of the old English hall—things which have grown out of the very asperity62 of the climate, left no traces in our literature? Did Milton, Bacon, Spenser, Shakspeare, and such spirits, walk through our solemn halls, whether of learning, or religion, or baronial pomp, all of which have been raised by the very genius of a pensive63 climate; or did they climb our mountains, and roam our forests, amid winds that roared in the boughs64 and whirled their leaves at their feet, and gather thence no imagery, no similes65, no vigour66 of thought and language, such as still skies and flowery meadows could not originate? Let us turn to the lays and romances of Scott and Byron, and see whether brown heaths and splintered mountains; the savage67 ruins of craggy coasts, moaning billows, mists, and rains; the thunder of cataracts68, and the sleep of glens, all seen and felt under the alternations of seasons and of weather, such only as an unsettled climate could shew,—have not tinged69 their spirits,[6] and therefore their works, with hues70 of an immortal56 beauty, the splendid product of a boisterous71 climate. Why, they are these influences which have had no small share in the creation of such men as Burns, Bloomfield, Hogg, and Clare—the shepherd-poets of a free land, and an out-of-door life. Yes, we are indebted to our climate for a mass of good, a host of advantages of which we little dream, till we begin to count them up.
And are all our experiences of the English climate those of gloom? Are there no glorious sunsets, no summer evenings, balmy as our dreams of heaven, no long sunny days of summer, no dewy mornings, whose freshness brings with it ideas of earth in its youth, and the glades72 of Paradise trod by the fair feet of Eve? Have we no sweet memories of youth and friendship, in which such hours, such days, in which fields of harvest, hay-harvest and corn-harvest, with all their rejoicing rustic73 companies, lie in the sunshine? Are there none of excursions through the mountains, along the sea shores, of sailing on fair lakes, or lying by running waters in green and flowery dales, while overhead shone out skies so blue and serene74 that they seemed as though they could never change? In every English bosom75 there lie many such sweet memories; and if we look through the whole of one of the worst seasons that we have, what intervals76 of pleasant weather we find in it. One of the great charms of this country too, dependent on its climate, is that rich and almost perpetual greenness, of which strangers always speak with admiration.
But what of climate? There are other claims on our affections for this noble country, which, were its climate the most splendid under heaven, would yet cast that far into the shade. What binds77 us closely to it, next to our living ties, is that every inch of English ground is sanctified by noble deeds, and intellectual renown78; but on this topic Mrs. Howitt has, in her Wood-Leighton, put into the mouth of a worthy79 clergyman of Staffordshire, words that will better express my feelings, than any I can now use.
“I know not how it is; I cannot comprehend the feeling, with which many quit this noble country for ever for strange lands. And yet it may be said, that hundreds do it every day; and for thousands it may indeed be well. For those who have had no prospect80 but the daily struggle for existence; for those whose[7] minds have not been opened and quickened into a sense of the higher and more spiritual enjoyments which this country affords; for the labouring many, the valleys of Australia or the vast forests and prairies of America may be alluring81. But to me,—and therefore, it seems, equally to other men with like tastes and attachments—to quit England, noble, fearless, magnanimous, and Christian15 England, would be to cut asunder82 life, and hope, and happiness at once. No! till I voyage to ‘the better land,’ I could never quit England. What! after all the ages that have been spent in making it habitable, and home-like; after all the blood shed in its defence, and for the maintaining of its civil polity; after all the consumption of patriotic83 thought and enterprise, the labours of philosophers, divines, and statesmen, to civilize84 and Christianize it; after the time, the capital, the energies employed, from age to age, to cultivate its fields, dry up marshes85, build bridges, and lay down roads, raise cities, and fill every house with the products of the arts and the wealth of literature; can there be a spot of earth that can pretend to a tithe86 of its advantages, or a spot that creates in the heart that higher tone necessary for their full enjoyment? Why, every spot of this island is sanctified, not only by the efforts of countless87 patriots88, but as the birth-place and abode26 of men of genius. Go where you will, places present themselves to your eyes which are stamped with the memory of some one or other of those ‘burning and shining lights,’ that have illuminated89 the atmosphere of England with their collective splendour, and made it visible to the men of farthest climates. Even in this secluded90 district, which, beautiful as it is, is comparatively little known or spoken of, amongst the generality of English people, how many literary recollections surround you! To say nothing of the actors in great historical scenes; the Talbots, Shrewsburys, Dudleys, and Bagots of former ages; or the Ansons, Vernons, St. Vincents, and Pagets of the later and present ones; in this county were born those excellent bishops92, Hurd and Newton, and the venerable antiquary and herald93, Elias Ashmole. To say nothing of the amount of taste and knowledge that exist in the best classes of society hereabout, we have to-day passed the houses of Thomas Gisborne and Edward Cooper, clergymen who have done honour to their profession by their talents and the liberality of their sentiments. In[8] that antiquated94 Fauld Hall, once lived old Squire95 Burton, the brother of the author of the ‘Anatomy of Melancholy;’ and there is little doubt that some part of that remarkable96 work was written there. By that Dove, Izaak Walton, that pious97 old man, that lover of the fields, and historian of the worthies98 of the church, used to stroll and meditate99, or converse100 with his friend Charles Cotton, a Staffordshire man too. In the woods of Wotton, which are very visible hence by daylight, once wandered a very different, but very distinguished person, the wayward Rousseau. In Uttoxeter, that great, but ill-used, and ill-understood astronomer101, Flamstead, received the greater part of his education; and from Lichfield, the spires103 of whose cathedral we have seen to-day, went out Johnson and Garrick, each to achieve supremacy104 in his own track of distinction. And there, too, lived Anna Seward, who, with all her egotism and faults of taste, was superior to the women of her age, and had the sagacity to perceive amongst the very first, the dawning fame of Southey and Sir Walter Scott.
“If this comparatively obscure district can thus boast of having given birth or abode to so many influential105 intellects, what shall not England—entire and glory-crowned England? And who shall not feel proud to own himself of its race and kindred; and, if he can secure for himself a moderate share of its common goods, be happy to live and die in it!”
Thus it is all England through. There is no part of it, in which you do not become aware that there some portion of our national glory has originated. The very coachmen as you traverse the highways, continually point out to you spots made sacred by men and their acts. There say they, was born, or lived, Milton or Shakspeare, Locke or Bacon, Pope or Dryden; that was the castle of Chaucer; there, now, lives Wordsworth, Southey, or Moore. There Queen Elizabeth was confined in her youth, here she confined Mary of Scotland in her age. There Wickliffe lived, and here his ashes were scattered106 in the air by his enemies. There Hooker watched his sheep while he pondered on his Ecclesiastical Polity. Here was born Cromwell, or Hampden—here was the favourite retreat of Chatham, Fox, Pitt, or other person, who in his day exerted a powerful influence on the mind or fortunes of this country. These perpetual monitions that we are walking in a land filled from end[9] to end with glorious reminiscences, make country residence in England so delightful107. But the testimony108 of foreigners is more conclusive109 than our own; and therefore, we will close this chapter with the impression which the entrance into England made on two Americans—Washington Irving and Mr. Willis. Irving’s mind was full of the inspiration of the character of England as he had found it in books. “There is to an American, a volume of associations with the very name. It is the land of promise, teeming110 with every thing of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have pondered. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian111 giants along the coast; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the Channel; the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds; all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green grass-plots. I saw the mouldering112 ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy113, and the taper114 spire102 of a village church rising from the brow of a neighbouring hill—all were characteristic of England.” That is the feeling of an American, arriving here directly from his own country: this is that of one coming from the European Continent. Mr. Willis says, on landing at Dover: “My companion led the way to an hotel, and we were introduced by English waiters (I had not seen such a thing in three years, and it was quite like being waited on by gentlemen) to two blazing coal fires in the coffee-room of the ‘Ship.’ O, what a comfortable place it appeared! A rich Turkey carpet snugly115 fitted; nicely rubbed mahogany tables; the morning papers from London; bell-ropes that would ring the bell; doors that would shut; a landlady116 that spoke91 English, and was kind and civil; and, though there were eight or ten people in the room, no noise above the rustle117 of a newspaper, and positively118 rich red damask curtains, neither second-hand119 nor shabby, to the windows! A greater contrast than this, to the things that answer to them on the Continent, could scarcely be imagined. The fires were burning brilliantly, and the coffee-room was in the nicest order when we descended120 to our breakfast at six the next morning. The tea-kettle singing on the hearth121, the toast was hot, and done to a turn, and the waiter was neither sleepy nor uncivil,—all, again, very unlike a morning at an hotel in La belle122 France. England is[10] described always very justly, and always in the same words, ‘it is all one garden.’ There is scarce a cottage, between Dover and London (seventy miles) where a poet might not be happy to live. I saw a hundred little spots I coveted123 with quite a heart-ache. Everybody seemed employed, and everybody well-made and healthy. The relief from the deformity and disease of the way-side beggars of the Continent was very striking.”
It is through this England, thus worthy of our love, whether as seen by our own eyes, or the eyes of intelligent foreigners, that we are about to make our progress, visiting plain and mountain, farm and hamlet, and making acquaintance with the dwellings124, habits, and feelings of both gentle and simple.
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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requisites
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| n.必要的事物( requisite的名词复数 ) | |
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dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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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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dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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elegances
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| n.高雅( elegance的名词复数 )；（举止、服饰、风格等的）优雅；精致物品；（思考等的）简洁 | |
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refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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enervated
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| adj.衰弱的，无力的v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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malaria
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| n.疟疾 | |
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baneful
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| adj.有害的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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50
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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51
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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52
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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53
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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54
begetting
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| v.为…之生父( beget的现在分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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55
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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56
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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57
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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58
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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59
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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60
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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61
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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62
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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63
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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64
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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65
similes
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| （使用like或as等词语的）明喻( simile的名词复数 ) | |
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66
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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67
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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68
cataracts
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| n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 )；白内障 | |
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69
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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71
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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72
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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73
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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77
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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78
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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79
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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82
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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84
civilize
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| vt.使文明，使开化 (=civilise) | |
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85
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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86
tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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89
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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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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92
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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93
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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98
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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99
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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100
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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101
astronomer
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| n.天文学家 | |
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102
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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103
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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104
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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105
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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106
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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107
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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108
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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109
conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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110
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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111
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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112
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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113
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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114
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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115
snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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116
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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117
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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118
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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119
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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120
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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121
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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122
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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123
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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124
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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