We must now wind up, in a few words, what we have to say of the country life of the gentry1, and these words must be on their gardens. In these, as in all those other sources of enjoyment2 that surround them, perfection seems to be reached. They live in the midst of scenes which, while they appear nature itself, are the result of art consummated3 only by ages of labour, research, science, travel, and the most remarkable4 discoveries. Nothing can be more delicious than the rural paradises which now surround our country houses. Walks, waters, lawns of velvet5 softness, trees casting broad shadows, or whispering in the stirrings of the breeze; seclusion6 and yet airiness; flowers from all regions, besides all the luxuries which the kitchen-garden, the orchard7, conservatories8, hothouses, and sunny walls pour upon our tables, are so blended and diffused[68] around our dwellings10, that nothing on earth can be more delectable11. It is impossible, without looking back through many ages of English life, to form any idea of the real advantages which we enjoy of this kind,—of the immense stride we have made from the bare and rigid12 life of our ancestors. How many of the fruits or flowers, or culinary vegetables, which we possess in such excellence13 and perfection, did this country originally produce? Few, indeed, of our indigenous14 flowers are retained in our gardens, few of our vegetables besides the cabbage and the carrot; and what were the ancient British fruits besides the crab15 and the bullace? But we have only to look back to the feudal16 times to see the wide difference between our gardens and those then existing; for all that could be enjoyed of a garden must be compressed within the narrow boundary of the castle moat. Every thing without was subject to continual ravage17 and destruction; and though orchards18 were planted without, and suffered to take their chance, the ladies’ little parterre occupied some sheltered nook of the court, or space between grim towers:
Now was there maide fast by the touris wall,
A garden faire, and in the corneris set
An herbere grew; with wandis long and small,
Railit about, and so with treeis set
That lyfe was now, walkyng there for bye,
That myght within scarce any wight espye.
The Quair, by James I. of Scotland.
And the plot of culinary herbs occupied some sheltered spot within the moat; which when it is recollected20 how many other requisites21 of existence and defence were also compressed into the same space—soldiers, arms, and machines of war; sleeping and eating rooms; room for the stabling and fodder22 of horses, and often of cattle; space for daily exercise, martial23 or recreative; bowls, tilting24 or tennis,—when cooped up by their enemies, or made cautious by critical times, small indeed must have been the space or the leisure for gardens. Even in 1540, Leland in his Itinerary25, tells us that our nobility still dwelt in castles, and there retained the usual defences of moats, and drawbridges. This was especially the case, the nearer they approached to the Scotch26 or Welsh borders; though in the vicinity of London villas27 and palaces[69] had long sprung up. At Wressel Castle, near Howden, in Yorkshire, he says, “The gardens within the mote29, and the orchardes without, were exceeding fair. And yn the orchardes were mounts, opere topiario, writhen about with degrees like the turnings in cokil shelles, to come to the top without payn.” The career, indeed, by which our gardens have reached their present condition, has been, as I have said, the career of many ages, revolutions, and stupendous events. It is not only curious, but most interesting to trace all those circumstances which have contributed to raise horticulture to its present eminence,—the great national events, the extension of discovery, of the arts, of general knowledge; the deep ponderings in cells and fields; the achievements of genius, of enterprise; the combinations of science, and the variations of taste which have brought it to what it is. The history of our gardening is, in fact, the history of Europe. The monks30, whose religious character gave them an extraordinary security, as they were the first restorers of agriculture, so they were the first extenders and improvers of our gardens. Their long pilgrimages from one holy shrine31 to another, through France, Germany, and Italy, made them early acquainted with a variety of culinary and medicinal herbs, and with various fruits; and amongst the ruins of abbeys we still find a tribe of plants that they thus naturalized. The crusades gave the next extension to horticultural knowledge; the growing commerce and wealth of Europe fostered it still farther; and the successive magnificent discoveries of the Indies, America, the isles33 of the Pacific and Australia, with all their new and splendid and invaluable34 productions, raised the desire for such things to the highest pitch; and made our gardens and greenhouses affluent35 beyond all imagination. What hosts of new and curious plants do they still send us every season! From every corner of the earth are they daily reaching us: the average value of the plants in Loddige’s gardens is calculated at 200,000l. But what a blank would they now be but for the mighty36 spirit of commerce, the thirst of discovery, and of traversing distant regions, which animate37 such numbers of our countrymen, and send them out to extend our geography, geology, and natural history, or to prosecute38 astronomical39 and philosophical40 science under every portion of the heavens? And besides these causes, how much is yet to be[70] accounted for by the tastes of peculiar41 ages—out of the peculiar studies of the times, and the singular genius of particular men thence arising. The influence of poets and imaginative writers upon the character of our gardens has been extreme. Whether an age were poetical42 or mathematical, made a mighty difference in the garden-style of the time. C. Matius, the favourite of Augustus C?sar, introduced the fashion at Rome of clipping trees into shapes of animals and other grotesque43 forms; Pliny admired the invention, and celebrated44 it under the name of topiary-work; and so strongly did it take hold on the spirits of men, that it descended45 to all the nations of Europe, and was not exploded by us till the last century. Sir Henry Wotton, the tasteful and poetical courtier of Queen Elizabeth, and ambassador of James to Venice, with notions of the fitness of a garden far beyond his age, yet thought it “a graceful46 and natural conceit” in Michael Angelo to make a fountain-figure in the shape of “a sturdy washerwoman, washing and winding47 of linen48 clothes, in which act she wrings49 out the water which made the fountain.” And again Addison, followed by Pope and Walpole, overturned this ancient fondness for pleached walks, and tonsured50 trees, and quaint32 fountain-figures, whether of Neptunes, Niles, or washerwomen. Then the great change of the social system, from the feudal and military to civil and domestic, produced a correspondent change in the culture of gardens. While the country was rent to pieces by contentions51 for the crown, there could be little leisure or taste for gardens; but when men became peaceful, and collected their habitations into clusters, they naturally began to embellish52 both them and their environs.
From the reign53 of Edward III. to that of Henry VIII. we look over a large space, and find but slight improvement in horticulture, and scanty54 traces of its literature. A bushel of onions in Richard II.’s reign cost twelve shillings of our present money: Henry VII. records himself, in a MS. preserved in the Remembrance Office, that apples were in his day one and two shillings each, a red one fetching the highest price; and Henry VIII.’s queen, Catherine, when she wanted a salad, sent to Flanders for it. The very first book which was written on the culture of the soil in this country, appears to be Walter de Henly’s—“De Yconomia sive Housbandria,” Then came Nicholas Bollar’s books, “De Arborum[71] Plantatione,” and “De Generatione Arborum et Modo Generandi et Plantandi,” and some other MS. writings. Richard II. rewarded botanical skill in the person of John Bray55 with a pension. Henry Calcoensis in the fifteenth century composed a Synopsis56 Herbaria, and translated Palladius de Re Rustica into Gaelic. In the sixteenth century William Horman, Vice-Provost of Eton, wrote Herbarum Synonyma and Indexes to Cato, Varro, Columella, and Palladius; and in the same century Wynkin de Worde printed “Mayster Groshede’s Boke of Husbandry,” which contained instructions for planting and grafting58 of trees and vines. Arnold’s Chronicle in 1521, had a chapter on the same subject, and how to raise a salad in an hour; and Pynson published the “Boke of Surveying and Improvements.” Then came Dr. Bulleyn, Dodoneus, Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, and Tusser; and that is the history of gardens and their literature till the time of Henry VIII.; but thence to the eighteenth century,—to the days of Bridgman and Kent, what multitudes of grand, quaint, and artificial gardens were spread over the country. Nonsuch, Theobalds, Greenwich, Hampton-Court, Hatfield, Moor-Park, Chatsworth, Beaconsfield, Cashiobury, Ham, and many another, stood in all that stately formality which Henry and Elizabeth admired, and in which our Surreys, Leicesters, Essexes; the splendid nobles of the Tudor dynasty, the gay ladies and gallants of Charles II.’s court, had walked and talked, fluttered in glittering processions, or flirted59 in green alleys60 and bowers61 of topiary-work; and amid figures, in lead or stone, fountains, cascades62, copper64 trees dropping sudden showers on the astonished passers under, stately terraces with gilded65 balustrades, and curious quincunx, obelisks66, and pyramids—fitting objects of the admiration67 of those who walked in high-heeled shoes, ruffs and fardingales, with fan in hand, or in trunk-hose and laced doublets.
“The palace of Nonsuch,” said Hentzner in 1598, “is encompassed68 with parks full of deer, delicious gardens, groves69 ornamented71 with trellis-work, cabinets of verdure (summer-houses, or seats cut in yew72), and walls so embowered with trees, that it seems to be a place pitched upon by pleasure herself to dwell in along with health. In the pleasure and artificial gardens are many columns and pyramids of marble; two fountains that spout73 water, one round, the other like a pyramid, upon which are perched small[72] birds that stream water out of their bills. In the grove70 of Diana is a very agreeable fountain, with Act?on turned into a stag, as he was sprinkled by the goddess and the nymphs, with inscriptions74. Here is, besides, another pyramid of marble full of concealed75 pipes, which spurt76 upon all who come within their reach.” In the gardens of Lord Burleigh, at Theobalds, he tells us are nine knots, artificially and exquisitely77 made, one of which was set for the likeness78 of the king’s arms. One might walk two miles in the walks before he came to the end.
In Hampton-Court, was a fountain with syrens and other statues by Fanelli. At Kensington were bastions and counterscarps of clipped yew and variegated79 holly80, being the objects of wonder and admiration under the name of the siege of Troy. At Chatsworth the temporary cascade63, the water-god, the copper-tree, and the jets-d’eau, still remain in all their glory.
The hands of Bridgman, Kent and Brown, and the pens of Addison, Pope, and Walpole, have put all this ancient glory of Roman style to the flight; and driven us, perhaps, into danger of going too far after nature. The winding walks, the turfy lawns, the bowery shrubberies, the green slopes to the margin81 of waters, the retention82 of rocks and thickets83 where they naturally stood,—all this is very beautiful, and many a sweet elysian scene do they spread around our English houses. But in imitating nature we are apt to imitate her as she appears in her rudest places, and not as she would modify herself in the vicinity of human habitations. We are apt to make too little difference between the garden and the field; between the shrubbery and the wood. We are come to think that all which differs from wild nature is artificial, and therefore absurd. Something too much of this, I think, we are beginning to feel we have had amongst us. It has been the fashion to cry down all gardens as ugly and tasteless, which are not shaped by our modern notions. The formalities of the French and Dutch have been sufficiently84 condemned85. For my part, I like even them in their place. One would no more think of laying out grounds now in this manner, than of wearing Elizabethan ruffs, or bag-wigs and basket-hilted swords; yet the old French and Dutch gardens, as the appendages86 of a quaint old house, are in my opinion, beautiful. They are like many other things—not so much beautiful in[73] themselves, as beautiful by association—as memorials of certain characters and ages. A garden, after all, is an artificial thing; and though formed from the materials of nature, may be allowed to mould them into something very different from nature. There is a wild beauty of nature, and there is a beauty in nature linked to art: one looks for a very different kind of beauty in fields and mountains, to what one does in a garden. The one delights you by a certain rude freedom and untamed magnificence; the other, by smoothness and elegance—by velvet lawns, bowery arbours, winding paths, fair branching shrubs87, fountains, and juxta-position of many rare flowers.
It appears to me that it is an inestimable advantage as it regards our gardens, that the former taste of the nation has differed so much from its present one. Without this, what a loss of variety we should have suffered! If the taste of the present generation had been that of all past ages, what could there have been in the gardens of our past kings, nobles, and historical characters to mark them as strongly and emphatically as they are now marked? They now, indeed, seem to belong to men and things gone by; and I would as soon almost see one of our venerable cathedrals rased with the ground, as one of those old gardens rooted up. There is something in them of a sombre and becoming melancholy88. They are in keeping with the houses they surround, and the portraits in the galleries of those houses. When we wander through the pleached alleys, and by the time-stained fountains of these old gardens, perished years indeed seem to come back again to us. In the centre of some vast avenue of majestic89 elms or limes, sweeping90 their boughs91 to the ground, “the dial-stone aged92 and green” arrests our attention, and points not to the present hour, but to the past. Our historic memories are intimately connected with such places. Our Howards, Essexes, Surreys, and Wolseys, were the magnificent founders93 and creators of such places; and in such, Shakspeare and Spenser, Milton and Bacon, and Sidney mused94. It is astonishing what numbers of our poets, philosophers, and literati, are connected with the history of our gardens by their writings, or love of them. Sir Henry Wotton, Parkinson, Ray, John Evelyn, Sir Walter Raleigh, Bacon, Addison, Pope, Sir William Temple, who not only wrote “the Garden of Epicurus,” but[74] so delighted in gardening that he directed in his will that his heart should be buried beneath the sun-dial in his garden at Moor-Park in Surrey, where it accordingly was deposited in a silver box: Horace Walpole, Locke, Cowley, Shenstone, Charles Cotton, Waller, Bishop95 Fleetwood, Spence, the author of Polymetis, Gilpin of the Forest Scenery, Mason, Dr. Darwin, Cowper, and many others, have their fame linked to the history or the love of gardens.
There is something very interesting too, in the biography of our old patriarchs of English gardening. There is scarcely one of those large nurseries and gardens round London but is connected with them, as their founders, or improvers—as the Tradescants of Lambeth,—London and Wise of Brompton,—Philip Miller96 of Chelsea,—Gray of Fulham,—Furber of Kensington,—Lee of Hammersmith. It is cheering to observe how much our monarchs97, from Henry VIII. to George III. were, with their principal nobility, almost to a man, whatever was their character in other respects, not even excepting the dissipated Charles II., munificent99 patrons of gardening, and founders of grand gardens. It is interesting to read of the giant labours, and now apparently100 curious locations of our early gardeners and herbalists. How Dr. Turner imbibed101 botanical knowledge from Lucas Ghinus at Bologna, and came and established a “garden of rare plants” at Kew; while Mrs. Gape102 had another at Westminster, which furnished the first specimens103 for Chelsea garden. How Ray, and Lobel, and Penny, roamed everywhere in search of new plants. How Didymus Mountain published his “Gardener’s Labyrinth:” how Sir Hugh Platt, of Lincoln’s-Inn, gentleman, wrote the Jewel House of Art and Nature, the Paradise of Kew, and the Garden of Eden, and had, moreover, a garden in St. Martin’s Lane. How the “Rei Rustic57?” of Conrad Heresbach, counsellor to the Duke of Cleve, was translated by Barnaby Googe, and reprinted by Gervase Markham, gentleman, of Gotham in Nottinghamshire. How old John Gerarde travelled, when young, up the Baltic, and had his “Physick Garden” in Holborn. How John Parkinson travelled forty years before he wrote his “Paradisus,” and was appointed by Charles I. for his Theatre of Plants, Botanicus Regius Primarius. How Gabriel Plattes, though styled by his cotemporaries, “an excellent genius,” and “of an adventurous104 caste[75] of mind,” died miserably105 in the streets. How Walter Blythe of Oliver Cromwell’s army wrote the “Survey of Husbandry,” which Professor Martyn pronounces “an incomparable work.” How Samuel Hartlib, the son of a Polish merchant, the friend of Milton, of Archbishop Usher106 and Joseph Meade, wrote his “Legacy,” and assisted in establishing the embryo107 Royal Society; how John Tradescant was in Russia, and accompanied the fleet sent against the Algerines in 1620, and collected on that occasion plants in Barbary, and in the isles of the Mediterranean108; and how his son John, afterwards made a voyage in pursuit of plants to Virginia, “and brought many new ones back with him.” How their Museum, established in South Lambeth, and called “Tradescant’s Ark,” was the constant resort of the great and learned; how it fell into the hands of Elias Ashmole, and became the Ashmolean Museum.
These, and such facts, shew us by what labours and steps our present garden-wealth has been raised; and diffuse9 an interest over a number of places familiar to us. Go, indeed, into what part of the island we will, we find some object of attraction and curiosity in the gardens attached to our old houses. As the coach passes the residence of Colonel Howard, at Leven’s Bridge in Westmoreland, it stops, the passengers get out, and mount upon its top, and there behold109 a fine old Elizabethan house, standing110 in the midst of a garden of that age, with all its topiary-work, its fountains, statues, and lawns. At Stonyhurst in Lancashire, now a Jesuit’s College, I was delighted to find a beautiful old garden of this description, which I have elsewhere described; and at Margam Abbey in South Wales, I found a fine assemblage of orange trees, the very trees which Sir Henry Wotton sent from Italy as a present to James I. These trees had been thrown ashore111 here by the wreck112 of the vessel113, and the owner of the place, by the king’s permission, built a splendid orangery to receive them, which stood in the centre of a garden surrounded on three sides by woody hills; and in which fuchsias, at least ten feet high, with stems thick as a man’s arm, were growing in the open air, and tulip-trees large as the forest trees around. But what gave a still greater charm to this garden was, that the ruins of a fine old abbey stood here and there on its lawn; arches, overgrown with[76] bushes, and the graceful pillars of a noble chapter-house, around whose feet lay stones of ancient tombs and curious sculpture. These are the things which give so delicious a variety to our English gardens: and when we bear in mind that many of those artifices114 and figures which we have been accustomed to treat with contempt as Dutch, are in reality Roman; that such things once stood in the magnificent gardens of Lucullus and Sallust; that the Romans gathered them again from the Eastern nations; that they are not only classical, but that, like many of the rites115 of our church and religious festivals, they are the reliques of the most ancient times, I think we shall be inclined to regard them with a greater degree of interest—not as objects to imitate or to place in any competition with our own more natural style, but as things which are of the most remote antiquity116, and give a curious diversity to our country abodes117. For my part, when I see even a fantastic peacock spreading its tail in yew in some old cottage or farm-house garden I think of Pliny and his admiration of such topiary-work, and would not have it cut down for the world. Even those summer-houses built in trees, such as that built by the King of Belgium, in Winter-Down wood, near Claremont; a sketch118 of which is presented in the title-page—were Roman fancies; were formed, Pliny tells us, amid the branches of any monarch98 trees that grew within their grounds, and that even Caligula had one in a plane-tree, near his villa28 at Velitr?, which he called his Nest.
Here then to all the sweet nests of English gardens, new or old, we bid adieu, with blessings119 on their pleasantness.
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1
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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2
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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3
consummated
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| v.使结束( consummate的过去式和过去分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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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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5
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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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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conservatories
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| n.（培植植物的）温室，暖房( conservatory的名词复数 ) | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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10
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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12
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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ravage
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| vt.使...荒废，破坏...；n.破坏，掠夺，荒废 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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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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requisites
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| n.必要的事物( requisite的名词复数 ) | |
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fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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itinerary
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| n.行程表，旅行路线；旅行计划 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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mote
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| n.微粒；斑点 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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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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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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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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prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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astronomical
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| adj.天文学的，（数字）极大的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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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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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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48
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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49
wrings
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| 绞( wring的第三人称单数 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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50
tonsured
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| v.剃( tonsure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
contentions
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| n.竞争( contention的名词复数 )；争夺；争论；论点 | |
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52
embellish
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| v.装饰，布置；给…添加细节，润饰 | |
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53
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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54
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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55
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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56
synopsis
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| n.提要，梗概 | |
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57
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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58
grafting
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| 嫁接法，移植法 | |
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59
flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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61
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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62
cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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63
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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64
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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65
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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66
obelisks
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| n.方尖石塔，短剑号，疑问记号( obelisk的名词复数 ) | |
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67
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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68
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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73
spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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74
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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75
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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76
spurt
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| v.喷出；突然进发；突然兴隆 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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80
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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81
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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retention
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| n.保留，保持，保持力，记忆力 | |
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83
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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84
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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85
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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86
appendages
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| n.附属物( appendage的名词复数 )；依附的人；附属器官；附属肢体（如臂、腿、尾等） | |
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87
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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90
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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91
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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92
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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93
founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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94
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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95
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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96
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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97
monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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98
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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99
munificent
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| adj.慷慨的，大方的 | |
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100
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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101
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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102
gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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103
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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104
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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105
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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106
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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107
embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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108
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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109
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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110
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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111
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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112
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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113
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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114
artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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115
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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116
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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117
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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118
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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119
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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