LIFE IN THE DALES OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE.
The nooks of the world which we visited in our last chapter lay in Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire; we will now change the scene a little northward1. Such secluded2 and original spots we might indeed readily undertake to discover in almost every county of England; but I can only give a few specimens5 from the great whole, and leave every one to look about him for the rest. Lancashire is famous for its immense manufactures, and consequent immense population. In ranging over its wild, bleak6 hills, we are presently made sensible of the vast difference between the character and habits of the working class, and the character and habits of the pastoral and agricultural districts. We have no longer those picturesque7 villages and cottages, half buried in their garden and orchard8 trees; no longer those home-crofts, with their old, tall hedges; no longer rows of beehives beneath their little thatched southern sheds; those rich fields and farm-houses,[222] surrounded with wealth of corn-ricks, and herds9 and flocks. You have no longer that quiet and Arcadian-looking population; hedgers and ditchers, ploughmen and substantial farmers, who seem to keep through life the “peaceful tenor10 of their way,” in old English fulness and content. There may be indeed, and there are, such people scattered11 here and there; but they and their abodes13 are not of the class which gives the predominant character to the scenery. On the contrary, everywhere extend wild naked hills, in many places totally unreclaimed; in others, enclosed, but exhibiting all the signs of a neglected and spiritless husbandry; with stunted14 fences or stone walls; and fields sodden15 with wet from want of drainage, and consequently overgrown with rushes. Over these naked and desolate16 hills are scattered to their very tops, in all directions, the habitations of a swarming17 population of weavers19; the people and their houses equally unparticipant of those features which delight the poet and the painter. The houses are erections of stone or brick, covered with glaring red tiles, as free from any attempt at beauty or ornament21 as possible. Without, where they have gardens, those gardens are as miserable22 and neglected as the fields; within, they are squalid and comfortless.
In some of these swarming villages, ay, and in the cottages of the large manufacturing towns too, you can scarcely see a window with whole panes24 of glass. In one house in the outskirts25 of Blackburn, and that, too, an alehouse, we counted in a window of sixty panes, eight-and-forty broken ones; and this window was of a pretty uniform character with its fellows, both in that house, and the neighbouring ones. It is not possible to conceive a more violent and melancholy26 contrast than that which the filth27, the poverty, and forlornness of these weavers’ and spinners’ dwellings28 form to the neatness, comfort, and loveliness of the cottages of the peasantry in many other parts of the kingdom. Any man who had once been through this district, might again recognise the locality if he were taken thither30 blindfold31, by the very smell of oatcake which floats about the villages, and the sound of the shuttles, with their eternal “latitat! latitat!” I ranged wide over the bleak hills in the neighbourhood of Padiham, Belthorne, Guide, and such places, and the numbers and aspect of the population filled me[223] with astonishment32. Through the long miserable streets of those villages, children and dogs were thick as motes33 in the sun. The boys and men with their hair shorn off, as with a pair of wool-shears, close to their heads, till it stood up staring and bristly, and yet left hanging long over their eyes, till it gave them a most villanous and hangman look. What makes those rough heads more conspicuous34, is their being so frequently red; the testimony35 of nature to the ancient prevalence of the Dane on these hills. The men are besides long and bony; the women often of stalwart and masculine figure, and of a hardness of feature which gives them no claims to be ranked amongst the most dangerous of the “Lancashire witches.” Everywhere the rudeness of the rising generation is wonderful. Everywhere the stare of mingled36 ignorance and insolence37 meets you; everywhere a troop of lads is at your heels, with the clatter38 of their wooden clogs39, crying—“Fellee, gies a hawpenny!”
In one village, and that too the celebrated40 Roman station of Ribchester, our chaise was pursued by swarms41 of these wooden-shod lads like swarms of flies, that were only beaten off for a moment to close in upon you again, and their sisters shewed equally the extravagance of rudeness in which they were suffered to grow up, by running out of the houses as we passed, and poking43 mops and brushes at the horses’ heads. No one attempted to restrain or rebuke44 them; and yet, what was odd enough, not one of the adult population offered you the least insult, but if you asked the way, gave you the most ready directions, and if you went into their houses, treated you with perfect civility, and shewed an affection for these wild brats45 that was honourable46 to their hearts, and wanted only directing by a better intelligence. The uncouthness48 of these poor people is not that of evil disposition49, but of pressing poverty and continued neglect. As is generally the case, in the poorest houses were the largest families. Ten and eleven children in one small dirty hovel was no uncommon50 sight, actually covering the very floor till there seemed scarce room to sit down; and amid this crowd, the mother was generally busy washing, or baking oatcakes; and the father making the place resound51 with the “latitat, latitat” of his shuttle. One did not wonder, seeing this, that the poor creatures are glad to[224] turn out the whole troop of children to play on the hills, the elder girls lugging52 the babies along with them.
The wildness into which some of these children in the more solitary53 parts of the country grow, is, I imagine, not to be surpassed in any of the back settlements of America. On the 5th of July, 1836, the day of that remarkable54 thunder-storm, which visited a great part of the kingdom with such fury, being driven into a cottage at the foot of Pendle by the coming on of this storm, and while standing55 at the door watching its progress, I observed the head of some human creature carefully protruded57 from the doorway58 of an adjoining shed, and as suddenly withdrawn59 on being observed. To ascertain61 what sort of person it belonged to, I went into the shed, but at first found it too dark to allow me to discover any thing. Presently, however, as objects became visible, I saw a little creature, apparently62 a girl of ten years old, reared very erectly63 against the opposite wall. On accosting64 her in a kind tone, and telling her to come forward, and not to be afraid, she advanced from the wall, and behold65! there stood another little creature about the head shorter, whom she had been concealing66. I asked the elder child whether this younger one was a girl. She answered—“Ne-a.” “Was it a boy?” “Ne-a.” “What! neither boy nor girl! was she herself a girl?” “Ne-a.” “What was it a boy that I was speaking to?” “Ne-a.” “What in the name of wonder were they then?” “We are childer.” “Childer! and was the woman in the house their mother?” “Ne-a.” “Who was she then?” “Ar Mam.” “O! your mam! and do you keep cows in this shed?” “Ne-a.” “What then?” “Bee-as.” In short, common English was quite unintelligible67 to these little creatures, and their appearance was as wild as their speech. They were two fine young creatures, nevertheless, especially the elder, whose form and face were full of that symmetry and free grace that are sometimes the growth of unrestrained nature, and would have delighted the sculptor68 or the painter. Their only clothing was a sort of little bodice with skirts, made of a reddish stuff, and rendered more picturesque by sundry70 patches of scarlet71 cloth, no doubt from their mother’s old cloak. Their heads, bosoms72, and legs to the knees, were bare to all the influences of earth and heaven; and on giving them each a penny, they bounded away with the fleetness and[225] elasticity73 of young roes74. No doubt, the hills and the heaths, the wild flowers of summer and the swift waters of the glens, were the only live-long day companions of these children, who came home only to their oatmeal dinner, and a bed as simple as their garments. Imagine the violent change of life, by the sudden capture and confinement75 of these little English savages77, in the night-and-day noise, labour, and foul78 atmosphere of the cotton purgatories79!
In the immediate80 neighbourhood of towns, many of the swelling81 ranges of hills present a much more cultivated aspect, and delight the eye with their smooth, green, and flowing outlines; and the valleys almost everywhere, are woody, watered with clear rapid streams, and, in short, are beautiful. But along these rise up the tall chimneys of vast and innumerable factories, and even while looking on the palaces of the master manufacturers, with their woods and gardens, and shrubbery lawns around them, one cannot help thinking of all the horrors detailed83 before the Committees of the House of Commons respecting the Factory System; of the parentless and friendless little wretches84, sent by wagon-loads from distant workhouses to these prisons of labour and despair; of the young frames crushed to the dust by incessant85 labour; of the beds into which one set of children got, as another set got out, so that they were said never to be cold the whole year round, till contagious86 fevers burst out and swept away by hundreds these little victims of Mammon’s ever-urging, never-ceasing wheel. Beautiful as are many of those wild glens and recesses87 where, before the introduction of steam, the dashing rivulet88 invited the cotton-spinners to erect20 their mills; and curious as the remains89 of those simple original factories are, with their one great water-wheel, which turned their spindles while there was water, but during the drought of summer quite as often stood still; yet one is haunted even there, amongst the shadows of fine old trees that throw their arms athwart streams dashing down their beds of solid rock, by the memory of little tender children who never knew pity or kindness, but laboured on and on, through noon and through midnight, till they slept and yet mechanically worked, and were often awaked only by the horrid90 machinery91 rending92 off their little limbs. In places like these, where now the old factories, and the large houses of the proprietors93 stand deserted94, or are inhabited by troops of poor creatures, whose[226] poverty makes them only appear the more desolate, we are told by such men as Mr. Fielden of Oldham, once a factory child himself, and now a great manufacturer, who dares to reveal the secrets of the prison-house, that little creatures have even committed suicide to escape from a life worse than ten deaths. And what a mighty95 system is this now become! What a perpetual and vast supply of human life and energy it requires, with all the facilities of improved machinery, with all the developed power of steam, and with all the growing thirst of wealth to urge it on! We are told that the state of the factories, and the children employed in them, is greatly improved; and I trust they are; but if there be any truth in the evidence given before the parliamentary committees, there is need of great amelioration yet; and it is when we recollect96 these things, how completely the labouring class has, in these districts, been regarded as mere97 machinery for the accumulation of enormous capitals, that we cease to wonder at their uncouth47 and degraded aspect, and at the neglect in which they are suffered to swarm18 over these hills,—like the very weeds of humanity, cast out into disregarded places, and left to spread and increase in rank and deleterious luxuriance. The numbers of drunken men that you meet in these districts in an evening, and the numbers of women that you see seated with their ale-pots and pipes round the alehouse fires, a sight hardly elsewhere to be witnessed, form a striking contrast to the state of things in the agricultural districts, such as Craven, where you may pass through half-a-dozen villages, and not find one pot-house.
It was necessary to take a glimpse at these Lancashire hills in reviewing the rural life of England; let us now pass into a tract98 of the country which borders immediately upon them, and yet is so totally unlike in its aspect and population. We shall now penetrate99 into perhaps the most perfect nook of the world that England holds. The Yorkshire dales are known to most by name, but to comparatively few by actual visitation. They lie amongst that wild tract of hills which stretches along the West Riding of Yorkshire, from Lancashire to Westmoreland, and forms part, in fact, of the great mountainous chain which runs from Derbyshire through these counties and Cumberland into Scotland. Some of these hills are of great bulk and considerable altitude. The old rhymes are[227] well known of—
Ingleborough, Pendle, and Pennegent
Are the highest hills betwixt Scotland and Trent;
and
Pendle, Pennegent, and Ingleborough
Are the highest hills all England thorough.
The Yorkshire dales stretch from the foot of Ingleborough north-east and west, over a considerable space of country. It is a wild, and, in many parts, a dreary100 region. Long ridges101 of hills covered with black heath, or bare stone,—with stony103 wastes at their feet of the grimmest and most time-worn character. All round Ingleborough the whole country seems to have been so tossed, shaken, and undermined by the violence which at some period broke it up into its present character, that its whole subterranean104 space seems to be filled with caves and passages for winds and waters that possess a remarkable connexion one with another, and present a multitude of singular phenomena105. On the Craven side lie those celebrated spots Malham Cove3 and Gordale Scar, well known to tourists; the one, a splendid range of precipice106 with a river issuing from its base; the other, Gordale Scar, one of the most solemnly impressive of nature’s works. It is the course of a river which has torn its way from the top of a mountain, through a rugged107 descent in the solid rock, and falls into a sort of cove surrounded by lofty precipices108, which make such a gloom, that on looking up, the stars are said sometimes to be seen at noon. Amongst all the magnificent scenes which the mountainous parts of these kingdoms present, I never visited one which impressed me with so much awe109 and wonder as this. You approach it by no regular road; you have even to ask permission to pass through the yard of a farm-house, to get at it; and your way is then up a valley, along which come two or three streams, running on with a wild beauty and abundance that occupy and delight your attention. Suddenly, you pass round a rock, and find yourself in this solemn cove, the high grey cliffs towering above you on all sides, the water dropping from their summits in a silver rain, and before you a river descending111 from a cleft112 in the mountain, and falling, as it were, over a screen, and spreading in white foam113 over it in a solemn and yet riotous[228] beauty. This screen is formed of the calcareous deposit of the water; and crossing the stream by the stones which lie in it, you may mount from the greensward which carpets the bottom of the cove, climb up this screen, and ascend114 along the side of the falling torrent115, up one of the most wild and desolate ravines, till you issue on the mountain top, where the mountain cistus and the crimson116 geranium wave their lovely flowers in the breeze.
These scenes lie on the Craven side of Ingleborough, and as you wind round his feet, though distantly, by Settle, to the dales, your way is still amongst the loftiest fells, and past continual proofs of subterranean agency, and agency of past violence. You are scarcely past Settle, when by the road-side you see a trough overflowing117 with the most beautifully transparent118 water. You stop to look at it, and it shrinks before your eyes six or seven inches, perhaps, below the edge of the trough, and then again comes gushing119 and flowing over. As you advance, the very names of places that lie in view speak of a wild region, and have something of the old British or Danish character in them. To your left shine the waters distantly of Lancaster Sands, and Morecombe Bay, and around you are the Great Stone of Four Stones, the Cross of Grete, Yorda’s Cave, that is, the cave of Yorda, the Danish sorceress; Weathercote Cave, and Hurtle-pot and Gingle-pot. Our progress over this ground, though early in July, was amid clouds, wind and rain. The black heights of Ingleborough were only visible at intervals120 through the rolling rack, and all about Weathercote Cave, Hurtle-pot and Gingle-pot were traces of the violence of outbursting waters. We found a capital inn nearly opposite the Weathercote Cave, where one of the tallest of imaginable women presented us with a luncheon121 of country fare,—oatcake, cheese, and porter, and laid our cloaks and great-coats to dry while we visited the Cave and the Pots. Weathercote Cave is not, as the imagination would naturally suggest to any one, a cave in the side of a hill or precipice, but a savage76 chasm122 in the ground, in which you hear the thunder of falling waters. It is just such a place as one dreams of in ancient Thessaly, haunted by Pan and the Satyrs. When you come to the brink123 of this fearful chasm, which is overhung with trees and bushes, you perceive a torrent falling in a column of white foam, and with a thundering din56, into a deep abyss. Down to the bottom of this[229] abyss there is a sloping descent, amongst loose and slippery stones. When you reach the bottom, a cavern124 opens on your left, into which you may pass, so as to avoid the mass of falling water, which is dashed upon a large black stone, and then is absorbed by some unseen channel. The huge blocks of stone which lie in this cave appear black and shining as polished ebony. I suppose this chasm is at least a hundred feet deep, and yet a few days before we were there, it had been filled to overflowing with water, which had rushed from its mouth with such violence as to rend69 down large trees around it. What is still more remarkable, at a few hundred yards distance is another chasm of equal depth, and of perpendicular125 descent, whence the torrents126 swallowed by the Weathercote Cave during great rains are again ejected with incredible violence. This had taken place, as we have said, a few days before our visit, and though this gulf127 was now dry again, the evidences of its fury were all around us. Wagon-loads of stones lay at its mouth, which had been hurled128 up with the torrent of water, all churned or hurtled (whence its name of Hurtle-pot) by its violence into the roundness of pebbles129; and trees were laid prostrate130, with their branches crushed into fragments, in the track by which the waters had escaped. This track was towards the third singular abyss—Gingle-pot. This gulf had a wider and more sloping mouth than the other, so that you could descend110 a considerable depth into it, but there you found a black and sullen131 water, which the people say has never been fathomed132. It is said to contain a species of black trout133, which are caught, we were told, by approaching the surface of the water with lighted torches by night, towards which they rise. Several country fellows were amusing themselves as we approached with rolling large stones into the abyss, which certainly sunk into the water with an awful sound.
Such is the region which abuts134 upon the Yorkshire dales. The dales themselves are the intervening spaces betwixt high fells, which run in long ranges one beyond another in a numerous succession. Some of these dales possess a considerable breadth of meadow land, as Wensley-dale, but the far greater number have scarcely more room in the bottom than is occupied by the stream and the public road. Thus every dale seems a little world in itself, being shut in by its high ranges of fell. If you ascend to the[230] ridge102 of one of these, you find another dale, lying at your feet, with its own little community; were you to cross to the next ridge, you would find another, and so on, far and wide. It is a land of alternating ridge and hollow, ridge and hollow, or in the language of the district, fell and dale, without any intervention135 of champaign country. Wordsworth’s description in Peter Bell, shows that the poet had been there, as well as the potter.
Where deep and low the hamlets lie,
Beneath their little patch of sky,
And little lot of stars.
Formerly138, when there were no roads into these secluded dales, except some shingly139 ravine, down which the pedestrian, or one of their native ponies140 could with considerable caution, and sundry strikings of the foot against loose stones, descend, few, except the inhabitants themselves, could visit them, and they then must have possessed141 a primitive142 character indeed. Now, however, good roads run through them, and a greater intercourse143 with the surrounding country must have had its effect, yet I know no other corner of England where still linger so patriarchal a character and such peculiar144 habits.
George Fox, in his travels far and wide through the realm to promulgate145 his doctrines146, penetrated147 into these dales. From the top of Pendle-hill in Lancashire, where there is an immense prospect148, he tells us in his journal, that he had a vision of the triumphs of his ministry149, and of the thousands that would be converted to his peculiar faith. Descending in the strength of this revelation, he marched northward, and speedily found in these dales a primitive race, ready to adopt his opinions and practices, so congenial to a simple and earnest-hearted people. There he repeatedly came, and sojourned long; and the accounts of the extraordinary meetings held, and the effect produced, have few parallels in the histories of religious reformers. There is a little Church-of-England chapel150 perched on the highest point of Kendal Fells, not far from Sedburgh, which is in the outskirts of this district, called Firbank Chapel, where a thousand people are said to have been collected to hear him, and at which three hundred people were convinced of[231] the truth, to use his own words, at one time,—Francis Howgill, the minister, being one of them. That little chapel is standing yet, perhaps the very humblest fabric151 in England belonging to the Established Church, old and dilapidated, and situated152 in one of the most singular and wild situations. There are the identical little windows, at which some of the old people stood within the chapel to listen to the preacher without, thinking it strange to worship anywhere but in a church or chapel. Near the door is a rock, on which he relates that he stood to preach. From its high site you look around over dreary moors154, and a vast tract of outstretched country, and wonder whence the people gathered to his ministry. But his fame was that of an apostle all round this country. In Sedburgh churchyard stand two yew156 trees, under the shade of which, he, on one occasion, preached, drawing all the people out of the church to him. Within the dales themselves he planted several meetings, at Aysgarth, Counterside and Laygate. These meetings still remain, and a considerable number of Friends are scattered through the dales, of a primitive and hospitable157 character. We went, on the only Sunday which we passed in the dales, to his favourite meeting at Counterside, and could almost have imagined that the remarkable times of his ministry were yet remaining. We found the meeting situated amid a cluster of rustic158 cottages in pleasant Simmerdale, by Simmerdale Water. The house in which he usually lived during his visits to this valley adjoined the meeting; a true old-fashioned house, where the remains of his oaken bedstead were still preserved; and a very handsome one it must have been, and far too much adorned159 with the vanity of carving160 for so plain a man, and so homely161 a place. But the people were flocking from all sides, down the fells, along the dales, to the meeting, not only the Friends themselves, but the other dalespeople; and we found Mr. Joseph Pease, brother of the M.P., and his lady, from Darlington, addressing a crowded audience. The old times of Fox seemed indeed returned. The preacher’s discourse162 was one of an earnest and affectionate eloquence163, and the audience was of a most simple and unworldly character. Almost every person, man or woman, had a nosegay in hand; nosegays in truth, for they very liberally and repeatedly applied164 them to the organ whence they are named. The herbs,[232] for they consisted rather of herbs than flowers, were as singular as the appearance of such a host of nosegays itself. Not one of them was without a piece of southernwood, in some instances almost amounting to a bush, and evidently there entitled to its ancient name, “lads’-love and lasses’-delight.” With this was grasped in many a hardy165 hand, thyme, and alecost, and, in many, mint! No doubt the pungent166 qualities of these herbs are found very useful stimulants167 in close and crowded places of worship, and especially under a drowsy168 preacher, by those whose occupations for the other six days lie chiefly out-of-doors, in the keen air of hills and moors. That such is the object of them was sufficiently169 indicated by a poor woman who offered us a little bunch of these herbs as we entered the meeting-house, saying with a smile, “they are so reviving.”
Amongst the Friends, are a considerable number of substantial people, who lead here a sort of patriarchal life, with their flocks and herds on the hills around them. And their houses, placed on the slope of the hills, yet not far above the level of the valley, with their ample gardens, must be in the summer months most agreeable abodes. Old English hospitality and kindness are found here in all their strength. We called on several of the resident proprietors, and amongst others Mr. William Fothergill, at Carr-End, since deceased. The garden of this gentleman was a perfect paradise of roses. But the fine old intellectual man himself, retaining beyond his eightieth year, and in this secluded place, all the enthusiasm of youth, the love of books, and aspirations170 after the spread of knowledge and freedom through the world, was a still more attractive object. He was the descendant of two well-known men, Dr. Fothergill, and Samuel Fothergill, an eminent171 minister in this society. Talent and liberality of sentiment seem a congenial growth of these dales, for the able and noble-minded Adam Sedgwick is a native of one of them.
To that valley, the beautiful vale of Dent153, we may as well betake ourselves, for in describing these retired172 regions, one portion may with great propriety173 be taken as a specimen4 of the whole. Descending therefore from the moors at Newby-Head, we found this southern entrance of Dent-dale steep and narrow. As we proceeded, it wound on before us for several miles, till we beheld[233] the village of Dent lying at its northern extremity174. Dent’s-Town, as they call it, has a very Swiss look, with its projecting roofs, and open galleries ascended175 by steps from the outside. But what strikes you with most surprise in this dale is its high state of cultivation176. All the lower part of the dale is divided into small enclosures, rich with grass and summer flowers, and beautifully wooded; and amid the orchards177 and gardens, peep out houses of various sizes and characters. The hills nearly meet at the bottom, and ascend high, in two long ranges. The upper part, above the enclosures, appears, in some parts, black with heath, but more generally smooth and green, and dotted all over with flocks of sheep and geese. On the wilder parts of these hills graze a great number of cattle, and a shaggy race of ponies peculiar to them, with coats and manes long, and bleached178 by the wintry winds, till they look at a distance, more like wild bisons than horses. These dun ponies, before the progress of enclosure, used sometimes to follow the tops of the hills right away into Scotland, and have been fetched back from a distance of two hundred miles. When they have shed their wintry coats, and ceased to have such a look
they often turn out very beautiful creatures, remarkably180 sure-footed, and highly prized for drawing in ladies’ pony-carriages. But we must descend into the valley: and here one of the most remarkable features is the river. It has all the character of a mountain torrent; huge stones, and masses of gravel181 everywhere demonstrating the occasional violence of the waters. But what has the most singular effect, its bed is one of solid stone, in some parts black or dark-grey marble, which is chafed182 and worn by the fury of the stream in floods, in such a manner that it looks itself like a rushing, billowy river, petrified183 by enchantment184. A great part of this bed during the summer is dry, and therefore the more remarkable in its aspect. Here and there you may walk along it for a considerable distance; then again it descends185 in precipices, and amid blocks of stone of a gigantic character. One of these places is known by the name of Hell’s Cauldron, no doubt, in rainy seasons, a most appropriate name; for the river here, overhung with dark masses of trees, falls over some huge steps of the[234] stony bed into a deep and black abyss, where the rending of the rocks and washing up of heaps of debris186, shew with what fury that cauldron boils. But what are still more significant of this fury, are the hollows worn into the very mass of the ledges187 of rocks over which it passes, one of which, overlooking the abyss, is called the Pulpit, from its form, and in which you may stand. These hollows, which are scooped188 out with wonderful regularity189, appear to be made by the churning and grinding of stones, which get in wherever the softer parts of the rocks give way to the action of the floods. Yet fearful as this Hell’s Cauldron must be when the stream is swollen190, we were told that a boy once slipped in, and was carried through it, and washed up on the bank below, unhurt; calling out to his astounded191 companions—“Here am I! where are you?” The public road runs along the side of the stream, down the valley. This stream is crossed by two queer little foot-bridges, called by the odd names of Tummy and Nelly, or Tummy-Brig and Nelly-Brig, having been built by two persons of these familiar names, to accommodate the inhabitants of the opposite sides of the dale. And truly, as will be shortly evident, a great accommodation they must be, not only in cases of actual business, but in those visitings which go on in the dale.
Not only the people and their houses have an old-fashioned look, but you see continually out-of-doors lingering vestiges192 of long-past times and ancient usages. There are sledges193 with which they bring stone and peat from the tops of the fells. I have often wondered at the industry of mountain-people in building up those stone walls, or dykes195, as they call them, which you often see running up the mountain sides, to very distant and often very steep places; but crossing these fells, I discovered that the labour was far less than it seemed at first sight. The material has not to be carried up these lofty ascents196; it abounds197 on their summits, and has only to be loosened, and slid down the hill sides on sledges, as they proceed, for they begin to build at the top, and not at the bottom. So their peat for fuel is found in abundance on the wet and spongy tops of these hills, and is dug, and reared on end to dry through the summer, and in the autumn is slid down on sledges. In the Scottish Highlands you see the women bringing the peat from the mountains in large creels, or baskets,[235] on their backs, while their husbands are perhaps angling in the loch below; but here the men generally act a less lordly part; cutting and drying the peat with the help of their boys, and sledging199 it into the bargain.
Besides these sledges, they have also that very ancient species of cart, the tumbrel; or, as they call it, the Tumble-Car. This is of so primitive a construction that the wheels do not revolve200 on a fixed201 axle, but the axle and wheels all revolve together. The wheels themselves are of a construction worthy202 of so pristine203 an axle; they are, in truth, wheels of the original idea; not things of the complex construction of nave204, spokes205, and fellies, but solid blocks of wood, into which the axle is firmly inserted; upon this axle the body of the vehicle is laid, and kept in its place by a couple of pegs206. It is such a cart as you might imagine rumbling207 down these hills in the days of their Saxon ancestors. Since good roads have been opened through the dales, carts of modern construction have followed, and these tumbrels will in awhile be no longer seen. They have, however, this advantage; in descending the steep sides of the hills, their clumsy construction of axle and wheel prevents them from running down too fast, and this is the cause why they are still retained. And yet this difficulty of movement sometimes becomes the cause of awkward dilemmas208. These tumbrels are apt to stick in the bogs210 as they come down the fells, and are not easily drawn60 out. We were assured that there was one then sticking in a bog209 on the hills, past all chance of recovery; and some wag of the dale had made this distich on the accident, denoting the peculiar pre-eminence of clumsiness in the unfortunate vehicle.
Willie O’Middlebrough’s tumble-car,
Many were better, and none waur.
With a carriage so antique, one is not surprised to find gears of corresponding character. Consequently, as in Cornwall, so here, collars of straw and a few ropes often serve to harness out the team.
As might be supposed, the inhabitants of one dale form a little community or clan211 where every one is known to the rest, and where a great degree of sociality and familiarity prevails; but the whole dale sub-divides itself again into neighbourhoods, where a[236] stronger esprit du corps212 exists. The dales are singularly marked by lines of ravines and streams, which run down the sides of the fells from the bogs and springs on the heights. These lines are commonly fringed on the lower slopes by alders214 and other water-loving trees. The smaller streams are called sikes, the larger gills, and the largest, being generally those which run along the dale, becks. The space from gill to gill generally constitutes a neighbourhood, or if that space is small, it may include two or three gills. Within this boundary they feel it a duty, established by time and immemorial usage, to perform all offices of good neighbourhood, and especially that of associating together. For instance, when a birth is about to take place, they have what is called a Shout. The nearest neighbour undertakes the office of herald215. She runs from house to house, through the neighbourhood, though it be dead of night, summoning all the wives with this cry—“Run, neighbour, run, for neighbour such-a-one wants thy help—and take thy warming-pan with thee!” The consequence is, that the house is speedily filled with women and warming-pans; a scene ludicrous, and, one would imagine, inconvenient216 enough too; but which the women of the dale all protest is a great comfort. When the child is born, there is a great ceremony of washing its head with brandy, which is performed by the father and his male friends, who are assembled for the occasion; and who then fall to, and make merry over their glasses.
The assembled women regale217 themselves with a feast of their own kind, being a particular species of bread made for the occasion, and sweet-butter; that is, butter mixed with rum and sugar, and having in truth no despicable flavour. Then comes the Wife-day, generally the second Sunday after the birth, when all the women of the neighbourhood who have attended at the Shout, go dressed in their best, to take tea, and hold a regular gossip, each carrying with her a shilling and the news of the neighbourhood. The highest possible offence that can be given, is to pass over a person within the understood limits of the neighbourhood—it is the dead-cut. Sometimes there occurs a false Shout, either through the wantonness or malice218 of some ne’er-do-weel. In the night, the mischievous219 wag runs from house to house, and calls all the good wives to the dwelling29 whence they are hourly expecting such a[237] summons. When they get there, they find it a hoax220, and come under the name of May-goslings,—the term applied to this species of dupe. The joke, however, is no venial221 one, for it is perhaps played off on a severe and tempestuous222 night, and the good dames223 muffled224 up in their cloaks, and lantern and warming-pan in hand, have to steer225 their way down the sides of hills, and across becks hidden by the drifts of snow. Similar assemblages take place at deaths, called Passings; and at Christmas, when they eat yule bread and yule cheese, made after a particular formula.
But perhaps the most characteristic custom of the Dales, is what is called their Sitting, or going-a-sitting. Knitting is a great practice in the dales. Men, women, and children, all knit. Formerly you might have met the wagoners knitting as they went along with their teams; but this is now rare; for the greater influx226 of visiters, and their wonder expressed at this and other practices, has made them rather ashamed of some of them, and shy of strangers observing them. But the men still knit a great deal in the houses; and the women knit incessantly227. They have knitting schools, where the children are taught; and where they sing in chorus knitting songs, some of which appear as childish as the nursery stories of the last generation. Yet all of them bear some reference to their employment and mode of life; and the chorus, which maintains regularity of action and keeps up the attention, is of more importance than the words. Here is a specimen.
Bell-wether o’ Barking,[8] cries baa, baa,
How many sheep have we lost to-day?
Nineteen have we lost, one have we fun,
Run Rockie,[9] run Rockie, run, run, run.
This is sung while they knit one round of the stocking; when the second round commences they begin again—
Bell-wether o’ Barking, cries baa, baa,
How many sheep have we lost to-day?
Eighteen have we lost, two have we fun,
Run Rockie, run Rockie, run, run, run;
and so on till they have knit twenty rounds, decreasing the numbers on the one hand, and increasing them on the other.[238] These songs are sung not only by the children in the schools, but also by the people at their sittings, which are social assemblies of the neighbourhood, not for eating and drinking, but merely for society. As soon as it becomes dark, and the usual business of the day is over, and the young children are put to bed, they rake or put out the fire; take their cloaks and lanterns, and set out with their knitting to the house of the neighbour where the sitting falls in rotation228, for it is a regularly circulating assembly from house to house through the particular neighbourhood. The whole troop of neighbours being collected, they sit and knit, sing knitting-songs, and tell knitting-stories. Here all the old stories and traditions of the dale come up, and they often get so excited that they say, “Neighbours, we’ll not part to night,” that is, till after twelve o’clock. All this time their knitting goes on with unremitting speed. They sit rocking to and fro like so many weird229 wizards. They burn no candle, but knit by the light of the peat fire. And this rocking motion is connected with a mode of knitting peculiar to the place, called swaving, which is difficult to describe. Ordinary knitting is performed by a variety of little motions, but this is a single uniform tossing motion of both the hands at once, and the body often accompanying it with a sort of sympathetic action. The knitting produced is just the same as by the ordinary method. They knit with crooked230 pins called pricks231; and use a knitting-sheath consisting commonly of a hollow piece of wood, as large as the sheath of a dagger232, curved to the side, and fixed in a belt called the cowband. The women of the north, in fact, often sport very curious knitting sheaths. We have seen a wisp of straw tied up pretty tightly, into which they stick their needles; and sometimes a bunch of quills233 of at least half-a-hundred in number. These sheaths and cowbands are often presents from their lovers to the young women. Upon the band there is a hook, upon which the long end of the knitting is suspended that it may not dangle234. In this manner they knit for the Kendal market, stockings, jackets, nightcaps, and a kind of caps worn by the negroes, called bump-caps. These are made of very coarse worsted, and knit a yard in length, one half of which is turned into the other, before it has the appearance of a cap.
[8] A mountain over-looking Dent Dale.
[9] The shepherd’s dog.
The smallness of their earnings235 may be inferred from the price[239] for the knitting of one of these caps being three-pence. But all knit, and knitting is not so much their sole labour as an auxiliary236 gain. The woman knits when her household work is done; the man when his out-of-door work is done; as they walk about their garden, or go from one village to another, the process is going on. We saw a stout237 rosy238 girl driving some cows to the field. She had all the character of a farmer’s servant. Without any thing on her head, in her short bedgown, and wooden clogs, she went on after them with a great stick in her hand. A lot of calves239 which were in the field, as she opened the gate, seemed determined240 to rush out, but the damsel laid lustily about them with her cudgel, and made them decamp. As we observed her proceedings241 from a house opposite, and, amused at the contest between her and the calves, said, “well done! dairymaid!” “O,” said the woman of the house, “that is no dairymaid: she is the farmer’s only daughter, and will have quite a fortune. She is the best knitter in the dale, and makes four bump-caps a day;” that is, the young lady of fortune earned a shilling a day.
The neighbouring dale, Garsdale, which is a narrower and more secluded one than Dent, is a great knitting dale. The old men sit there in companies round the fire, and so intent are they on their occupation and stories, that they pin cloths on their shins to prevent their being burnt; and sometimes they may be seen on a bench at the house-front, and where they have come out to cool themselves, sitting in a row knitting with their shin-cloths on, making the oddest appearance imaginable.
It may be supposed that eccentricity242 of character is the growth of such a place. A spirit of avarice243 is one of the most besetting244 evils. Many of the people are proprietors of their little homesteads; but there is no manufacturing beyond that of knitting, and money therefore is scarce. As it is not to be got very easily, the disposition to hold and save it becomes proportionably strong. They are extremely averse245 to suffer any money to go out of the dale; and will buy nothing, if they can avoid it, of people who travel the country with articles to sell; that would be sending money out of the dale; but they will go to a shop in the dale, and buy the same thing, not reflecting that the shopkeeper must first purchase it out of the dale, and therefore send money out of the[240] dale to pay for it; and that what goes out of the dale for such articles comes back again by the sale of their horses, cattle, and sheep. A person who had been collector of the taxes in one of these dales, described to us the excessive difficulty he had to collect the money, even from those whom he knew always had it. They would put off payments as long as possible, and when he went and told them it was positively246 the last time he could call, they would sit doggedly247, and declare that Samson was strong and Solomon was wise, but neither could pay money when they had not it. When they saw he would not depart, they would at length get up, go up stairs, where they always kept their cash. There he could hear them slowly open their chest, let down the lid again; open it again in awhile; then shut it again, and walk about the room as if unable to part with it. Then they would come to the top of the stairs, and shout down, saying they would not pay it. Finding him still immovable, they would come slowly down, but still persist—“I’ll nae gie it thee!” Then perhaps soon after, as if relenting, they would come towards him, open their hand with the money in it, extending it towards him; but when he offered to take it, snatch it away, saying—“Nay; tou’st niver hae it!” Finally, they would throw it to him, and with it abundance of angry words.
We met a man of a most gaunt and miserable appearance. A young man not more than thirty years of age. He had all the aspect of a penurious248 fellow. Dirty, unshaven, with soiled clothes and unwashed linen249. He was coming along the lane with a rude tumbrel. This man was a thorough miser23 as ever existed. He lived totally alone. He suffered no woman to come about his house. If his clothes ever were washed they were done by himself, but he never bought an ounce of soap. He had bought a small property; a house and some adjoining crofts, where he lived. From this place he was called Tony of Todcrofts. This man was never known to part with money except to the tax-gatherer. If he wanted a board put on his cart, or a nail to keep it together, he bargained with the wheelwright or the blacksmith to pay them in peat. He baked his own oatcake, and paid the miller250 in peat for grinding his oats. He drank milk from his own cow, and made his own clogs, cut from his own alder213. He contrived251 to[241] purchase little, and what he did purchase he still paid for in peat. On the fells he cut peat all summer, making days of uncommon length; and in the autumn he drew it down with a sledge194, and on one occasion, having no horse, he carried the sledge, every time he re-ascended the hills, upon his back.
In a neighbouring dale we passed the farm called Barben-park, which we were informed had been held by the family occupying it, on a lease for three lives, now being in the last life; of which the rent is so low that the tenant252 has oftener, on the rent-day, to receive money, on account of taxes and rates, than to pay any away. The house struck us as one of the most wild and solitary places of abode12 we had ever seen. It stood on the fell side, and for many miles there appeared no other house, nor any trace of human workmanship, but a few ruinous limekilns. The inhabitants were represented as wild and rude as their location, yet rich, the hills all round being covered with their sheep, ponies, cattle, and geese, which seemed in a great measure to run wild, and increase in a state of complete nature. There were said to be bulls of great savageness253 amongst them—the bulls of Barben being as awfully254 famous here as the bulls of Bashan of old; and foxes which the farmers often turned out, and chased with all their men for miles along the hills. A gentleman who had been at this house described the people as living like ancient kings in the rude abundance of earthly plenty. In Wensleydale there is a large farmer who keeps up the primitive custom of two meals a day, from Candlemas to Martinmas, which is the depth of winter. They breakfast at ten o’clock on cold meat, ale, cheese, etc.; and do not go into the house again till six in the evening, by which time they have not only returned from the fields, but have seen all their cattle served for the night, and a hot dinner of meat, puddings, and other good things, awaits them and their servants, who sit eating and drinking till bed-time.
In such a place a man’s appearance is no indication of his actual condition as respects property. Men who have good estates will be seen in a dress not worth three farthings altogether, except it were as a curiosity. They tell a story with great glee, of an old Friend, John Wilkinson, who sate255 in a patched coat on a large stone by the road-side, knitting, when a gentleman riding by,[242] stopped and fixed his eyes on him as in compassion256, and then threw him half-a-crown. He picked it up, told him he was much obliged to him, but added—“May be I’se richer na tou,” and returned him the money, desiring him to give it to some one who had greater need of it. In fact, the old Friend was wealthy; and in this case his pride overcame his acquisitive propensity257; but that propensity is unquestionably very powerful here, and another instance may be mentioned which occasioned a good deal of laughter in the dale. An old man of some property having a colt which he wanted breaking, instead of putting it into the hands of the horsebreaker, thought he would break it himself, and save the cost. Having brought it to carry him pretty well, he was desirous of making it proof against starting at sudden alarms. He therefore concerted with his wife that she should stand concealed258 behind the yard gate, with her cloak thrown over her head, and as he entered on the back of his colt, should pop out, and cry—Boh! Accordingly, in he rode, out popped the good-wife, and cried Boh! so effectually, that the horse made a desperate leap, and flung the old man with a terrible shock upon the pavement. Recovering himself, however, without any broken bones, though sorely bruised259 and shaken, he said, as he limped into the house—“Ah, Mally! Mally! that was too big a boh! for an old man and a young colt!”
This propensity extends too amongst the women as well as the men: one woman declared she would as lieve part with the skin off her back as with her money. And yet there are things which they will not do for money, as thousands of the poor in other districts do,—they won’t work in a factory. The experiment was tried in this dale; but the people, like the French, would only work just when they pleased, and soon would not work at all. One would have thought that the strong love of gain amongst them, and their industrious260 habits, would have insured success to such an experiment; but they had too much love for their own firesides, and the enjoyment261 of the fresh mountain air; the parents had too much love for their children to subject them to the daily incarceration262 amid heat, and dust, and flue from the cotton. The scheme failed; the factory stands a ruinous monument of the attempt, and these beautiful dales are yet free from the factory system. And yet, peaceful, and far removed as they are from the[243] acts and oppressions by which the strong build their houses, and add field to field out of the toils263 of the weak, they are not unacquainted with occasional instances of the evils done with impunity264 in the nooks of the world. I do not mean to represent such spots as Arcadias of purity and perfection. In the former chapter, and in this, I have indicated the vices265 which flourish, and the depravity which spreads in the shade of secluded life. The worst feature of these dales is the penurious spirit which little opportunity of profit produces; but I do not know that this spirit is a more sordid266 one than pervades268 the lower streets and alleys82 of large towns. There is along with it a strong sense of meum and tuum; a strong and uncorrupted moral principle; and no man is in danger of either being filched269 of his purse, or if he chanced to lose it by accident, of not regaining270 it. As the pressure of poverty is not so tremendous, so the extinction271 of the moral sense is by no means so great as in large towns; and, on the other hand, how much more delightful272 a view of the social life of these people we have, than of those of similar rank in our large manufacturing towns, and especially amongst the lower classes of the metropolis273, where they tread on each other from their multitudes, and yet, from the same cause, pass through life strangers to each other. Here the social sympathies are strongly called forth274; a sort of kinship seems to pervade267 the whole neighbourhood; and they pass their lives, if in a good deal of poverty, yet in mutual275 confidence, and very pleasant habits of association. Every man and every spot has a name and share of distinction. Every gill and beck have their appellation276, as Hacker-gill; Arten-gill; How-gill; Cow-gill; Spice-gill; Thomas O’Harbour-gill; Backstone-gill; Kale-beck; Monkey-beck. Every house has its name;—as Tinkler’s Budget; Clint; Henthwaite-Hall; Coat-Fall; The Birchen Tree; Lile-Town; Riveling; Broad Mere; Hollins; Ellen-ha; Scale-gill-foot; Clinter-Bank; Hollow-Mill,—all names in Dent. Their names for one another are the most familiar possible; and they use the christian277 names, and attach the christian names of their fathers and mothers in such a manner, that it is difficult to get at many people’s surnames. They themselves know very well John o’ Davits Fletcher, Kit278 o’ Willie, or Willie o’ Kit o’ Willie; when if the real name of these people were John Davis, Catherine Broadbent, or William Thistlethwaite,[244] they would have to consider awhile who was meant, if asked for by these names.
The dales-people have, therefore, evidently good elements; a strong social feeling; great simplicity279 of life and character; great honesty;—and the extension of the facility of voting in elections by dividing the counties, and appointing local polling places, has demonstrated that they have a strong love of liberal principles. All that appears wanting is exactly what is wanting in all these nooks, the introduction of more knowledge by the diffusion280 of sound and cheap publications, which would at once raise the moral tone, and inspire a more adventurous281 disposition, as is the case with the Scotch282; so that those who do not find profitable employment in these pastoral dales, should set out in quest of more promising283 fields of action. As to crimes of magnitude, if you hear of them here, they are perpetrated by those in a higher class. There was a story ringing through one of the dales when we were there, which if half of it were true, was bad enough; and that we might arrive at as much truth as possible, we visited and conversed284 with those who were apparently likeliest to know it. It was said, and this too by those who had been in daily intercourse with the parties—that a very wealthy widow lady, who seemed to have been of weak intellect, or at least so unaccustomed to the world, and matters of business, as to become an easy prey285 to any clever and designing fellow, had entrusted286 the management of her affairs to a lawyer of a neighbouring town. That this lawyer twenty years ago made her will, in which he had appointed himself one of the executors, and a gentleman of high character, living at a great distance, the other. That he had left in the will ten per cent. on the accumulations of her income to the executors, besides 500l. each, for the trouble of their office. That a man brought up in the house of the lady was left 5000l. That from the original making of the will, it appeared never to have been read over again at any time to the lady; but that she had frequently dictated287 or written in pencil her instructions for its alteration288 in many particulars, which instructions or alterations289 at the final reading of the will after her decease nowhere appeared. That from the time the will was made till that of her death, twenty years, her lawyer-executor had continually tormented290 her with the fear of poverty. He had told her that her income[245] did not meet her expenses; and through these representations had induced her to curtail291 her charities, and to lay down her carriage. This, however, did not suffice, and his representations made the poor lady miserable with the constant fear of coming poverty. In an agony of feeling on this subject, she one day sent her confidential292 servant to the lawyer to order him to sell her West Indian property. The lawyer said, “tell your mistress from me, that her West Indian property is not worth one farthing.” This the servant, whom we took the trouble of seeing, confirmed to us. The poor woman, haunted with the fear of poverty, at length took to her bed, and a few days before her death, when, indeed, her recovery was hopeless, her lawyer appeared at her bedside, and astounded her with the news, that so far from poverty, her West Indian property was very large, and her surplus income had actually accumulated in the funds to the sum of 80,000l.! and the hypocritical monster, with a refinement293 of cruelty perhaps never paralleled, humbly294 asked her, “how she would wish it disposed of?” The previous progress of the poor lady’s illness, and this overwhelming intelligence, rendered any present disposal impossible. She was thrown into the most fearful distress295 of mind,—and continually exclaiming, “O! please God that I might recover, how different things should be!” died on the third day.
When the will was read, the man who had 5000l. left him twenty years ago, found it left him still; and yet this man had for years lost the good opinion of the lady by his misconduct, and had not been permitted to come into her presence for two years. This was a striking proof that her will had not of late years been adapted to her altered mind. This man, who first came into the lady’s house as a shoeblack, or some such thing, and had on one occasion for his misconduct, the alternative offered him either to quit her service, or be carried up to the top of the neighbouring fell, on the back of one man and down again, while he was flogged by another, and was of so base a nature that he had chosen the flagellation, and continuance in a family where he was regarded with contempt—this man had now actually purchased the lady’s house of the executors, and lived in it! We walked past it, and naturally regarding it with a good deal of curiosity, a ludicrous scene occurred. I suppose, being strangers, and I having a moreen bag in my hand, it was[246] inferred from our particular observation of the place, that I was a lawyer, come down on the behalf of some dissatisfied expectant, to inquire into the case. However that might be, we presently saw the man’s wife, a very common-looking person, and appearing wonderfully out of place as the mistress of such a house, peeping at us from the windows, first on one side of the house, and then on the other, and at the same time attempting to screen herself from view by partly unclosing the shutters296, and placing herself behind them. Soon after, her daughter too came with stealthy steps, out of the back door, crept cautiously round the house, and posted herself behind a bush to watch us; nor had we advanced far from the place, when the man himself came hurrying along, and went past us with very black and inquisitive297 looks.
We were told that on the will being read, the other executor being now present, was not more amazed at the fact of his becoming, unknown to himself, so greatly benefited by it, than he was at the general details of it. He inquired of the lawyer if the will had been read to the lady from time to time, in order to see whether it might require some alteration, and being told by him that it had not, he seemed filled with the utmost astonishment and indignation, and abruptly298 said to him—“Why, there is nothing but damnation for you!” and with that proceeded in such piercing terms to shew to the lawyer the cruelty and wickedness of his conduct, that the man trembled through every joint299. It was added that the lawyer “never looked up afterwards,” but was in the greatest distress of mind, and daily wasted away. That when the tenants300 of the property, some time afterwards, went to pay their rents, they found him propped301 up in bed with bolsters302 and pillows, a most pitiable object; his inkhorn stitched into the bed-quilt by him, and yet his trembling hand scarcely able to direct his pen into it. That such was the effect of fear, and the visitings of conscience on his superstitious303 mind, that he drank the water which dropped from the church-roof in rainy weather, in the hope it would do him good!
This is a most extraordinary story, but we found one of these quiet dales ringing with it from end to end, and this was the account given by most trustworthy people, who knew the parties well, and one of whom was the lady’s confidential servant. Amongst the stories which we heard relating to the past state of these dales, was[247] one of the murder of a Highland198 drover, in its particulars bearing a striking resemblance to the story of Scott’s, told under that title. In Swale Dale is said to be a race of gipsies, a very fine set of people; and a remarkable account was given us of one of them, a singularly fine woman in her time, called Nance304 of Swaledale.
They have some singular customs in these dales, not yet mentioned. One is, when a sow litters, they allow her to champ oats out of a beehive to make the bees lucky; and salt is thrown into the fire, with the same object, when the bees swarm. Another of their customs arises out of their spirit of good neighbourhood, and mutual accommodation. In sheep-shearing305 time, instead of every one shearing his flock solitarily306, they combine together in troops, and go from farm to farm, till they have completed the whole, and celebrate the end of their labours at each house, over a good supper given by the master; in which a sweet pie, that is, a huge pie of legs of mutton cut small and seasoned with currants, raisins307, candied peel and sugar, and covered with a rich crust, figures on the board, accompanied by another favourite dish of fresh fried trout, and collops of ham, succeeded by gooseberry, or as they call them, berry pasties, and curd308 cheesecakes, and strong drink in plenty: a fiddle309 and a dance concluding the entertainment. The sheep-washing as well as the shearing is accompanied by this jollity.
In Deepdale, the farmers principally employ themselves at home in sorting and carding wool for knitting. They call it welding; and the fine locks, selected for the legs of the stockings, they call leggin, whilst the coarser part goes by the name of footing. Two old people, Laurence and Peggy Hodgson o’ Dockensyke, were both upwards310 of seventy, when Peggy died. As she lay on her death-bed, she said to her husband, “Laury, promise me ya thing,—at tou’ill not wed42 again when I’se gane.” “Peggy, my lass,” answered Laurence, “do not mak me promise nae sic thing; tou knaws I’se but young yet.” The old fellow did wed again, and his brother, on returning from the wedding, made this report of the bride:—“Why-a, she’s a rough ane. I’se welded her owre and owre, an’ I canna find a lock o’ leggin in her; she’s a’ footing.”
Here then I close this second chapter of the nooks of the world, bearing grateful testimony that amongst the virtues311 of the[248] dales-people, hospitality and attachment312 to their pleasant hills and valleys are pre-eminent. Wherever we went we found them only too happy to shew us all the beauties of their country, the winding becks, the scars and waterfalls, and prospects313 from the loftiest fells. When they had trudged with us for many a weary mile, through moss314 and moor155, they would hang the girdle upon the peat-fire, and in a wonderfully short time have those delicious little kettle-cakes, or as they call them, sad-cakes, made of pastry315, and thickly dotted with currants, smoking on the tea-table. And when you came in at a late hour, would bring you out those rural dainties, equally delicious, gooseberry tarts316, with curds317 and cream. Long may the simple virtues of the Dales remain, while knowledge in its growth, roots out the more earthly traits of character, and implants318 a bolder spirit of enterprise, with the present moral integrity of mind.
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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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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cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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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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herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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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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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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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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17
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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18
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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19
weavers
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| 织工，编织者( weaver的名词复数 ) | |
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20
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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21
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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22
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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23
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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24
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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25
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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26
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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27
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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28
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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29
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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30
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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31
blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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32
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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33
motes
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| n.尘埃( mote的名词复数 )；斑点 | |
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34
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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35
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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36
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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37
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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38
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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39
clogs
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| 木屐； 木底鞋，木屐( clog的名词复数 ) | |
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40
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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41
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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42
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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43
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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44
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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45
brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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46
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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47
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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48
uncouthness
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49
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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50
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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51
resound
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| v.回响 | |
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52
lugging
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| 超载运转能力 | |
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53
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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54
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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55
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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56
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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57
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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59
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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60
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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61
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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62
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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63
erectly
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| adv.直立地，垂直地 | |
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64
accosting
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的现在分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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65
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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66
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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67
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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68
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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69
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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70
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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71
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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72
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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73
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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74
roes
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| n.獐( roe的名词复数 )；獐鹿；鱼卵；鱼精液 | |
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75
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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76
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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77
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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78
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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79
purgatories
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| n.炼狱( purgatory的名词复数 )；（在炼狱中的）涤罪；暂时受苦的地方；暂时的苦难 | |
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80
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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81
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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82
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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83
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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84
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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85
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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86
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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87
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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88
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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89
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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90
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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91
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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92
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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93
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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94
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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95
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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96
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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97
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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98
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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99
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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100
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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101
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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102
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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103
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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104
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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105
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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106
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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107
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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108
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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109
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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110
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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111
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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112
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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113
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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114
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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115
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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116
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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117
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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118
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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119
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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120
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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121
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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122
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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123
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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124
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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125
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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126
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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127
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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128
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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129
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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130
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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131
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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132
fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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133
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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134
abuts
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| v.（与…）邻接( abut的第三人称单数 )；（与…）毗连；接触；倚靠 | |
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135
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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136
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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137
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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138
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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139
shingly
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| adj.小石子多的 | |
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140
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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141
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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142
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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143
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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144
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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145
promulgate
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| v.宣布；传播；颁布（法令、新法律等） | |
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146
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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147
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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148
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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149
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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150
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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151
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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152
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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153
dent
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| n.凹痕，凹坑；初步进展 | |
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154
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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155
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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156
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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157
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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158
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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159
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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160
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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161
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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162
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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163
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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164
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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165
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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166
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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167
stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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168
drowsy
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|
| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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169
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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170
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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171
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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172
retired
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|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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173
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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174
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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175
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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177
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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178
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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179
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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180
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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181
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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182
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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183
petrified
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|
| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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184
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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185
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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186
debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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187
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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188
scooped
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|
| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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189
regularity
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|
| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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190
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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191
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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192
vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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193
sledges
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| n.雪橇，雪车( sledge的名词复数 )v.乘雪橇( sledge的第三人称单数 )；用雪橇运载 | |
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194
sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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195
dykes
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| abbr.diagonal wire cutters 斜线切割机n.堤( dyke的名词复数 )；坝；堰；沟 | |
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196
ascents
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| n.上升( ascent的名词复数 )；（身份、地位等的）提高；上坡路；攀登 | |
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197
abounds
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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198
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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199
sledging
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| v.乘雪橇( sledge的现在分词 )；用雪橇运载 | |
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200
revolve
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|
| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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201
fixed
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|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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202
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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203
pristine
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|
| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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204
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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205
spokes
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| n.（车轮的）辐条( spoke的名词复数 )；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 | |
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206
pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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207
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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208
dilemmas
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| n.左右为难( dilemma的名词复数 )；窘境，困境 | |
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209
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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210
bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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211
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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212
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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213
alder
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| n.赤杨树 | |
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214
alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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215
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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216
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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217
regale
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| v.取悦，款待 | |
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218
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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219
mischievous
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|
| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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220
hoax
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| v.欺骗，哄骗，愚弄；n.愚弄人，恶作剧 | |
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221
venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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222
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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223
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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224
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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225
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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226
influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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227
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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228
rotation
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| n.旋转；循环，轮流 | |
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229
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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230
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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231
pricks
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| 刺痛( prick的名词复数 )； 刺孔； 刺痕； 植物的刺 | |
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232
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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233
quills
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| n.（刺猬或豪猪的）刺( quill的名词复数 )；羽毛管；翮；纡管 | |
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234
dangle
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| v.(使)悬荡，(使)悬垂 | |
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235
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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236
auxiliary
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| adj.辅助的，备用的 | |
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238
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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239
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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240
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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241
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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242
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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243
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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244
besetting
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|
| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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245
averse
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|
| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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246
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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247
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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248
penurious
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| adj.贫困的 | |
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249
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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250
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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251
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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252
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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253
savageness
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| 天然，野蛮 | |
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254
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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255
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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256
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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257
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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258
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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259
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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260
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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261
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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262
incarceration
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| n.监禁，禁闭；钳闭 | |
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263
toils
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| 网 | |
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264
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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265
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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266
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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267
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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269
filched
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| v.偷（尤指小的或不贵重的物品）( filch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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270
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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271
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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272
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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273
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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274
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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275
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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276
appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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277
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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278
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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279
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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280
diffusion
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| n.流布；普及；散漫 | |
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281
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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282
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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283
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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284
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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285
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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286
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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287
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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288
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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289
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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290
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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291
curtail
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| vt.截短，缩短；削减 | |
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292
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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293
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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294
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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295
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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296
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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297
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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298
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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299
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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300
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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301
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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302
bolsters
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| n.长枕( bolster的名词复数 )；垫子；衬垫；支持物v.支持( bolster的第三人称单数 )；支撑；给予必要的支持；援助 | |
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303
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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304
nance
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| n.娘娘腔的男人，男同性恋者 | |
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305
shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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306
solitarily
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| adv.独自一人地，寂寞地 | |
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307
raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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308
curd
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| n.凝乳；凝乳状物 | |
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309
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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310
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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311
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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312
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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313
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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314
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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315
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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316
tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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317
curds
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| n.凝乳( curd的名词复数 ) | |
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318
implants
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| n.（植入身体中的）移植物( implant的名词复数 ) | |
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