Our country houses, and especially the older ones, are in themselves an inestimable national treasure. A thousand endearing associations gather about them. I cannot conceive a more deeply interesting work than a history of them which entered fully1 into the spirit of the times in which they were raised, and through which they have stood. Which should give us a view of the national changes which have passed over them; mighty2 revolutions, whether abrupt3 and violent, or slow and silent, in fortune, in manners, and in mind; and still more, which should, aided by family paintings, family documents and traditions, unfold their domestic annals. What an opening up of the human heart would be there! There is nothing more splendid, or surprising, or fearful, or pathetic, or happy and fanciful in romance, than would be there discovered. There is no success, no glory of life and action, no image of princely or baronial power, no strange freaks of fortune, none of the startling, or the moving incidents of humanity but have there enrolled4 themselves. What noble hearts; what great and pathetic spirits have dwelt at one time or other in those old places; and then what beautiful and bewitching creatures have cast through them the sunshine of their presence; have made them glad with their wit, and their gay fancies, and their strong affections; or have hallowed them with their sufferings[250] and their tears. O for the revelation of the fair forms; of the scenes of successful or sorrowful love; of the bridals and the burials; of the poetic5 dreams and pious6 aspirations7, that have warmed or saddened these old halls through the flight of ages! Much of this is gone for ever; swept into the black and fathomless8 gulf9 of oblivion; but enough might be recovered to make us wonder at what has passed upon our ancestral soil, and to make us love it with a still deeper love. There is no portion of our national history, or point of our national character, but would be brought into the sweep of such narratives10, and receive illustration from them. Our warriors11, statesmen, philosophers, divines, poets, beauties and heroines more admirable than beauty could make them, would all figure there.[10] In the galleries of many of these houses, hang portraits to which traditions are attached that would freeze the blood, or make it dance with ardour and delight; that would chain up the listening spirit in breathless attention, in awe12 and curiosity. In the very writings by which the estates are secured, in old charters, wills, and other deeds, facts are traced and changes developed of the most singular character; and in the oral annals of the families exist correlative testimonies13, which have been imprinted14 there by the intense interest of the circumstances themselves.
[10] This was written four years ago. Since then the author has published the first volume of such a work, under the title of “Visits to Remarkable15 Places, Old Halls, Battle Fields, etc.”
How delightful16 it is to go through those hereditary17 abodes19 of ancient and distinguished20 families, and to see, in the very construction of them, images of the past times, and their modes of existence. Here you pass through ample courts, amid rambling21 and extensive offices that once were necessary to the jolly establishment of the age,—for hounds, horses, hawks22, and all their attendants and dependences. Here you come into vast kitchens, with fireplaces at which three or four oxen might be roasted at once, with mantelpieces wide as the arch of a bridge, and chimneys as large as the steeple of a country church. Then you advance into great halls, where scores of rude revellers have feasted in returning from battle, or the chase, in the days of feudal23 running and riding, of foraying and pilgrimages; of hard knocks and hard lying: ere tea and coffee had supplanted24 beef and ale at breakfast; ere books had[251] charmed away spears and targets, tennis-courts and tourneys, and political squabbles and parliamentary campaigning, the scouring25 of marches, and firing of neighbours’ castles. Then again, you advance into tapestried26 chambers27, on whose walls mythological28 or scriptural histories wrought29 by the fingers of high-born dames30, at once impress you with a sense of very still and leisurely31 and woodland times, when Crockford’s and Almack’s were not; nor the active spirit of civilization had raised up weavers32, and spinners, and artificers of all kinds by thousands on thousands, by towns-full and cities-full. And now you come to the very closets and bowers33 of the ladies themselves—scenes of worn and faded splendour, but shewing enough of their original state to mark their wide difference from the silken boudoirs and luxurious34 dormitories of the fair dames of this age of swarming35 and busy artisans; of ample rents and city life; instead of hunting and fighting, of wars in the heart of France, or civil wars at home, to call out the heads of houses, or perhaps drive their families forth36 with fire and sword in their absence. Then there is the antique chapel37, and the library; the one having, in most cases, been deserted38 by its ancient faith, the other still bearing testimony39 to the range of reading of our old squires40 and nobles, since reading became a part of their education, in a few grim folios,—a Bible, a Gwillim’s Heraldry, one or two of our Chroniclers, and a few Latin Classics or Fathers, for the enjoyment41 of the chaplain.
But the armoury and the great gallery—these are the places in which a flood of historic light pours in upon you, and the spirit of the past is made so palpable, that you forget your real existence in this utilitarian42 century; you forget reform in all its shapes—ballot, household suffrage43, triennial parliaments; you forget the cry of the church and king; and the counter-cry from a million of eager voices, for liberty of hearth44 and faith; you forget that all around you, from the very walls that surround you to the distant sea, is nothing but fields cultivated like gardens, secured by gates and fences, and tenfold more costly45 and powerful parchment, to their particular owners; you forget that towns stand by hundreds, and villages by thousands, filled with a busy, an inquisitive46, a reading, thinking, aspiring47 and irresistible48 population; and that all the institutions, the opinions, the loves and doings of[252] the times when these things before you were matters of familiar life, are gone, or are going, for ever: that,
Another race has been, and other palms are won.
Yes, mighty and impressive as these things are; deeply as they visit your daily thought and nightly dreams; woven as they are with the thread of your existence, and your hopes and belief of the future ages,—yes, potent49 as they are, they vanish for a time. Here are swords, helmets, coats of mail, and plate-armour standing50 up in its own massiveness; shells from which the active bodies which moved them, have long ago disappeared. Here are buff-coats, ponderous51 boots, and huge spurs; broad hats, with sweeping52 feathers, and chains of gold, crosses and amulets53, which make the past for ever in time, the past for ever in spirit, come back again with a vivid and intoxicating54 effect. You gaze upon arms and relics55 which figured in all the battles and pilgrimages, the desperate strifes and extravagant57 pageants58 of our ancestors; you behold59 things which link your fancies to all the romantic ages of European history. You forget the present; and exist amid forests, the stern strength of castles and the venerable quiet of convents. You are ready to listen to the distant bell of the abbey; for news of the crusaders; you expect as you ride through the woods, to stumble upon the abode18 of the hermit60. These arms and fragments before you, were in the battles of Cressy and Poictiers; in the wars of the Roses; in the Tourney of the Field of Cloth-of-Gold; that mail, on the back of some stout61 knight62, climbed over the ramparts of Ascalon, or of Jerusalem itself; and those, bringing you down the stream of events, are the equipments of Cavaliers and of Puritan leaders, when the spirit of feudalism and that of progression came so rudely into strife56 as to shake the kingdom like an earthquake. You step into the gallery, and there are the very men whose iron habiliments you have been contemplating63; there are the rude portraitures of the warriors of an earlier day; and there are the Sidneys, the Howards, the Essexes and Leicesters, the Warwicks and Wiltons, of an after one; the men that set up and pulled down kings, that waded64 through the blood of others, or that poured out their own, for honour and liberty. You have read of some handsome and gallant65 knight who wrought some chivalric[253] miracle, who perhaps died in its performance—he is there! You have glowed over the accounts of arrogant66 and fascinating beauties, who turned the heads of kings and nobles—they are there! worthy67 of all their fame, their very shadows filling you with sighs and dreams of loveliness, which will haunt you in the open sunshine, and amid all the cheerful sounds of present life.
But it is not merely these great historic characters. There are family ones that constitute a history amongst themselves, most interesting and touching68. There are the founders70 of those families. There is the great minister, who once rose to the favour of his sovereign, and swayed the destinies of the kingdom; there is the great churchman, that climbed up from plebeian72 obscurity to the primacy; there is the judge, who, from a younger brother of an ancient line, became the fortunate founder69 of a new one; there are admirals, generals, and nobles, who have figured in the campaigns of every reign71. There are stern forms that were despots in their own sphere, or calm and smiling faces that have such blots73 and dark passages attached to them as confound all your physiognomical acuteness; and there are beautiful and gentle-looking creatures, that are most strangely tainted74 with blood; noble matrons, who knew sorrows for which neither their rank and affluence75, no, nor the possessions of ten kingdoms could make recompense; and lastly, there are young boys and girls, that look on you with most innocent archness or open good-nature, which perished like blossoms ere fully opened, or lived to make you shudder76 over their remembrance.
Such are many of our older houses, to say nothing of later and more splendid ones; nothing of all the modern attractions that have been added to their ancient ones; nothing of those sumptuous77 places which our nobility have raised on their estates, and filled with all the luxurious adornments of modern life, and with the wealth of art. And then those houses stand scattered78 over all the kingdom, in fine old parks, in gardens of quaint79 alleys80 and topiary work; or in the freer beauty of modern lawns and shrubberies; objects of pleasure and pride to thousands beside their own possessors.
Horace Walpole wished that they were all collected in London, and then should we have had such a capital as the world could not boast. Heaven forgive him for the wish! A splendid capital no[254] doubt we should have had, but we should not have had such a country, such a people, such a national strength and character as we have. It is by living scattered through the realm, amid their own people, their own lands and woods, that our gentry81 have retained such high independence of principle, and such healthy tastes as they have done. It is by this means that agriculture, and horticulture, and rural architecture, have been promoted to the extent they have reached; that the whole kingdom has become a paradise, and that the people have been linked to the interests of their superiors. We have only too many temptations already to a crowding into our capital. A city life to a wealthy aristocracy must become a life of luxury and splendour, a life of dissipation and rivalry82. The enjoyments83 of society, of music, and of public spectacles, at intervals84, might refine the taste; but when this species of life becomes almost perpetual, its certain consequence must be to deteriorate85 and effeminate character; to weaken the domestic attachments86; to divert from, or disincline for that sober thought and those studies which lead to greatness, or leave behind solid satisfaction. We have already too much of this, and its effect will daily become more and more conspicuous87, as it is of more and more vital importance. Now, while the people are struggling to acquire possession of rights that they long knew not their claim to; now that they are growing informed, and therefore quick to see and to feel—those on whom they look as their natural and powerful rivals, are living at a distance from them; taking no means to conciliate their good-will, or to retain their esteem88. Their humble89 neighbours feel no effect from their estates except the withdrawal90 of their rents; and they ask themselves what claim these people, who are living in our great Babylon,
have upon their veneration92 or regard. Is it not in these noble ancestral houses, amid their ancestral woods and lands, that the spirit of our gentry is most likely to acquire a right tone? Here, where they are surrounded by objects and memories of worth, of greatness and renown93, that the fire of a generous and glorious emulation94 is most likely to be kindled95; and that all the best feelings of their nature are likely to be touched, and their best[255] affections quickened? Even Horace Walpole himself furnishes an instance in proof. Little as he had of the pensive96 and poetical97 in him, his visit to the family place at Houghton called up such thoughts and emotions as, if encouraged instead of avoided, might have made him aware of higher qualities in himself than he was habitually98 accustomed to display. “Here am I,” says he in one of his letters, “at Houghton! and alone; in this spot where, except two hours last month, I have not been in sixteen years! Think what a crowd of reflections! No!—Gray and forty churchyards could not furnish so many; nay99, I know one must feel them with greater indifference100 than I possess, to have patience to put them into verse. Here I am, probably for the last time in my life, though not for the last time; every clock that strikes tells me that I am one hour nearer to yonder church,—that church into which I have not yet had courage to enter; where lies the mother on whom I doated, and who doated on me! There are the two rival mistresses of Houghton, neither of whom ever wished to enjoy it. There too lies he who founded its greatness; to contribute to whose fall, Europe was embroiled101. There he sleeps in quiet and dignity, while his friend and his foe102, rather his false ally and real enemy, Newcastle and Bath, are exhausting the dregs of their pitiful lives in squabbles and pamphlets.
“The surprise the pictures gave me is again renewed. Accustomed for many years to see wretched daubs and varnished103 copies at auctions104, I look at these as enchantment105.... A party arrived just as I did, to see the house: a man and three women, in riding dresses, and they rode fast through the apartments. I could not hurry before them fast enough; they were not so long in seeing for the first time, as I could have been in one room, to examine what I knew by heart. I remember formerly106 being often diverted by this kind of seers; they come, ask what such a room is called, in which Sir Robert lay: admire a lobster107, or a cottage in a market-piece; dispute whether the last room was green or purple; and then hurry to the inn, for fear the fish should be overdressed. How different my situation! Not a picture here but recals a history; not one but I remember in Downing-street, or Chelsea, where queens and crowds admired them, though seeing them as little as these travellers.
[256]
“When I had drank tea I strolled into the garden. They told me it was now called the pleasure-ground. What a dissonant108 idea of pleasure! Those groves109, those alleys, where I have passed so many charming moments, are now stripped up, or overgrown; many fond paths I could not unravel110, though with a very exact clue in my memory. I met two gamekeepers, and a thousand hares! In the days when all my soul was tuned111 to pleasure and vivacity112, I hated Houghton and its solitude113; yet I loved this garden; as now, with many regrets, I love Houghton;—Houghton, I know not what to call it: a monument of grandeur114 or ruin! How I wished this evening for Lord Bute! How I could preach to him!—The servants wanted to lay me in the great apartment—what! to make me pass the night as I had done my evening! It were like proposing to Margaret Roper to be a duchess in the court which cut off her father’s head, and imagining it could please her. I have chosen to sit in my father’s little dressing-room, and am now in his escritoire, where, in the height of his fortune, he used to receive the accounts of his farmers, and deceive himself, or us, with the thoughts of his economy. How wise a man, at once, and how weak! For what has he built Houghton? For his grandson to annihilate115, or his son to mourn over.”
Horace Walpole’s Letters, vol. ii. pp. 227-8.
Having made these preliminary observations, I will now give a specimen116 or two from my native neighbourhood, because necessarily more familiar with them; let every reader throughout England look round him in his, and he will find others as interesting there.
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1
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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testimonies
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| （法庭上证人的）证词( testimony的名词复数 )； 证明，证据 | |
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imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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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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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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feudal
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supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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tapestried
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| adj.饰挂绣帷的，织在绣帷上的v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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mythological
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| adj.神话的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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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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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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weavers
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| 织工，编织者( weaver的名词复数 ) | |
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bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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amulets
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| n.护身符( amulet的名词复数 ) | |
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intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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pageants
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| n.盛装的游行( pageant的名词复数 )；穿古代服装的游行；再现历史场景的娱乐活动；盛会 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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66
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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68
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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69
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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70
founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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71
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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72
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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73
blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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74
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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75
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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76
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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77
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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78
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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79
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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80
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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81
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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82
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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83
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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84
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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85
deteriorate
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| v.变坏；恶化；退化 | |
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86
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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87
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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88
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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89
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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90
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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91
minions
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| n.奴颜婢膝的仆从( minion的名词复数 )；走狗；宠儿；受人崇拜者 | |
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92
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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94
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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95
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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99
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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100
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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101
embroiled
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| adj.卷入的；纠缠不清的 | |
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102
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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103
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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104
auctions
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| n.拍卖，拍卖方式( auction的名词复数 ) | |
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105
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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106
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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107
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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108
dissonant
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| adj.不和谐的；不悦耳的 | |
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109
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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110
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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111
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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112
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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113
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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114
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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115
annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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116
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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