Early in the spring of 1834, I walked over with Charles Pemberton from Nottingham, to see Annesley Hall, the birth-place and patrimony1 of Mary Chaworth; a place made of immortal2 interest by the early attachment3 of Lord Byron to this lady, and by the graphic4 strength and deep passion with which he has recorded in his poems this most influential5 circumstance of his youth.
Annesley lies about nine miles north of Nottingham, itself—the scene of his first and most lasting6 attachment—Newstead, his patrimonial7 abode8—and Hucknall, his burial-place; forming the three points of a triangle, each of whose sides may be about two miles in length. Yet, although Newstead and Hucknall have been visited by shoals of admirers, this place, perhaps altogether the most interesting of the three, has been wholly neglected. Few, or none of them, have thought it worth while to go so little out of their way to see it; perhaps not one in a hundred has known that it was so near; probably to those who inquired about it, it might be replied, “you see that wooded ridge9—there lies Annesley. You see all that is worth seeing; it is a poor tumble-down place:” and so they have been satisfied, and have returned in their wisdom to their own place, at a hundred, or a thousand, miles distance. But what is still more remarkable10, while Mr. Murray has sent down an artist into this neighbourhood to make drawings of Hucknall church and Newstead for his Life and Poems of Lord Byron; and while others[269] have encompassed11 sea and land to give us thrice reiterated12 landscapes illustrative of his biography and writings, and have even presented us with fictitious14 portraits of the most interesting characters connected with his fortunes,—they have totally passed over Annesley as altogether unworthy of their notice, though it is a spot, at once, full of a melancholy16 charm; of a sad, yet old English beauty; a spot, where every sod, and stone, and tree, and hearth17, is rife18 with the most strange and touching19 memories in human existence; and where the genuine likeness20 of Mary Chaworth, in the most lovely and happy moments of her life, is to be found.
Need I pause a moment to account for this? Does not the discerning public always tread in one track? As sheep follow one leader, and traverse the heath in a long extended line, so does the public follow the first trumpeter of the praises of one place. It has been fashionable to visit Newstead, and it has been visited;—but as Annesley was not at first thought of, it has not been visited at all. Well! we have visited it; and if there be any power in the most melancholy of mortal fortunes—in the retracing21 the day-dreams of an illustrious spirit—in the gathering22 of all English feelings round the strongest combination of the glories of nature, with the aspect of decay in the fortunes and habitation of an ancient race, we shall visit it again and again.[13]
[13] Since this was published in the Athen?um in the autumn of 1834, Washington Irving has published his interesting visit to Newstead and Annesley.
That wooded ridge was our landmark23 from the first step of our journey, and we soon reached Hucknall. The approach to Hucknall is pleasant; the place itself is a long and unpicturesque village. Count Gamba is said to have been struck with its resemblance to Missolonghi. Sixteen years have now passed since the funeral of Lord Byron took place here, and yet it seems to me but as yesterday. His admirers, in after ages, will naturally picture to themselves the church, on that occasion, overflowing25 with the intelligent and poetical26 part of the population of the neighbourhood. A poet who had spent a good deal of his boyhood and youth in it—whose patrimonial estate lay here—who had gone hence, and won so splendid a renown27—whose life had been a series of circumstances and events as striking and romantic as his poetry—who had finally been cut down in his prime, in so brilliant an[270] attempt to restore the freedom and ancient glory of Greece—would naturally be supposed to come back to the tomb of his ancestors, amidst the confluence29 of a thousand strongly-excited hearts. But it was not so. There was a considerable number of persons present, but the church was by no means crowded, and the spectators were, with very few exceptions, of that class which is collected, by idle curiosity on the approach of any not very wonderful procession; who would have collected to gaze as much at the funeral of his lordship’s grandfather, or his own, though he had not written a line of poetry, or lifted the sword of freedom;—probably, with threefold eagerness at that of a wealthy cit, because there would have been more of bustle30 and assuming blazonry about it. With the exception of the undertaker’s hired company; of Sir John Cam Hobhouse, and his lordship’s attorney, Mr. Hanson; his Greek servant Tita, and his old follower31 Fletcher, the rest of the attendants were the villagers, and a certain number of people from Nottingham, of a similar class, and led by similar motives32. There was not a score of those who are called “the respectable” from Nottingham; scarcely one of the gentry33 of the county. This strange fact can only be accounted for by the circumstance that Nottingham and its vicinity are famous for the manufacture of lace and stockings, but, like many other manufacturing districts, possess no such decided34 attachment to literature. Many readers there are, undoubtedly35, in both town and country, but readers chiefly for pastime—for the filling up of a certain space between and after business—and a laudable way too of so filling it; but not readers from any unconquerable passion for, or attachment to, literature for its own sake. A few literary persons have lived in or about the neighbourhood, but these are the exception; the character of the district is manufacturing and political, but by no means literary, nor ever was; therefore, the strongest feeling with which Lord Byron was regarded there, was a political one. Though an aristocrat36 in birth and bearing, he was a very thorough radical37 in principle. Hence, he had only the sympathy of the radicals38 with him, those consisting chiefly of the working classes. The whigs of the town and the gentry of the county, chiefly tories, regarded him only in a political light, and paid him not the respect of their presence.
[271]
The religious world had a high prejudice against him for his manifold sins of speech, opinion, and life; they of course were not there. No party had so much more admiration39 of genius—conception of the lofty, intellectual achievements of the noble poet, discernment of the abundant qualifying, and, in fact, overbalancing grace and beauty, and even religious sentiment, which breathed through many of his writings—for no man had more ennobling and truly religious feelings rooted in his soul by the contemplation of the magnificence of God’s handiworks in creation; or felt occasionally, more deeply the spiritualizing influence that pervades40 nature;—no party had so much more of this tone of mind, than of their political or sectarian bias41, as to forget all those minor42 things in his wonderful talent—his early death—his redeeming43 qualities, and last deeds—and the honour he had conferred, as an everlasting44 heritage, on this country.
In the evening, after the people who had attended the funeral were dispersed45, I went down to the church and entered the vault46. There was a reporter from one of the London newspapers copying the inscriptions47 on the coffins49 by the light of a lamp; and a great hobble-de-hoy of a farmer’s lad was kneeling on the case that contained the poet’s heart, and lolling on the coffin48 with his elbows, as he watched the reporter, in a manner that indicated the most perfect absence of all thought of the place where he was, or the person on whose remains50 he was perched.
In the churchyard, a group of the villagers were eagerly discussing the particulars of the funeral, and the character of the deceased. One man attempted to account for the apparently51 indifferent manner in which the clergyman performed the burial service, by his having understood that he felt himself disgraced by having to bury an atheist52. “An atheist!” exclaimed an old woman, “tell me that he was an atheist! D’ ye think an atheist would be beloved by his servants as this man was? Why, they fret53 themselves almost to death about him. And d’ ye think they would have made so much of him in foreign parts? Why, they almost worshipped him as a god in Grecia!” giving the final a a sound almost as long as one’s finger. This was conclusive—the wondering auditors55 had nothing to reply—they quietly withdrew their several ways, and I mine.
[272]
The church was broken into soon after the funeral, and the black cloth with which the pulpit was hung on this occasion, carried away: and this is not the only forcible entry that has been made through Lord Byron’s being buried there; for the clerk told me, that when Moore came to see it with Colonel Wildman, being impatient of the clerk’s arrival, who lives at some distance, the poet had contrived56 to climb up to a window, open it, and get in, where the worthy15 bearer of the keys found him, to his great astonishment57.
The indifference58 shewn by the people of Nottingham towards the great poet, would not seem to have abated59, if we are to judge by the entries in an album kept by the clerk, and which was presented for that purpose about twelve years ago by Dr. Bowring. The signatures of visiters in 1834 amounted to upwards60 of eight hundred, amongst which appear the names of people from North and South America, Russia, the Indies, and various other distant places and countries, but few from Nottingham or its shire, who might be supposed to be amongst the best read and best informed portion of its population. This, however, must be allowed, that the names entered in the clerk’s book afford no just criterion of the number or quality of the visiters to the poet’s tomb, as many of the most poetical and refined minds might naturally feel reluctant to place their signatures in such a medley61 of mawkish62 sentiment as is always found in such albums. A few clergymen, we, however, were pleased to see, had there placed their names; and some dissenting63 ministers had ventured so far as to do likewise, and to preach some pretty little sermons over him in the book, which opens thus:
TO THE
Immortal and Illustrious Fame
OF
LORD BYRON,
THE FIRST POET OF THE AGE IN WHICH HE LIVED,
THESE TRIBUTES,
WEAK AND UNWORTHY OF HIM,
BUT IN THEMSELVES SINCERE,
July, 1825.
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At this period no monument—not even so simple a slab67 as records the death of the humblest villager in the neighbourhood—had been erected68 to mark the spot in which all that is mortal of the greatest man of our day reposes69; and he has been buried more than twelve months.—July, 1825.
So should it be: let o’er this grave
No monumental banners wave;
Aught that may break the charming spell,
By which, as on this sacred ground
He kneels, the pilgrim’s heart is bound.
A still, resistless influence,
While every whisper seems to breathe
—And though the master-hand is cold,
And though the lyre it once controlled
Rests mute in death; yet from the gloom
Which dwells about this holy tomb,
Than epitaph or monument.
One laurel wreath—the poet’s crown—
Is here by hand unworthy thrown;
One tear that so much worth should die,
Fills, as I kneel, my sorrowing eye;
This is the simple offering,
Poor, but earnest, which I bring.
The tear has dried; the wreath shall fade,
The hand that twined it soon be laid
In cold obstruction—but the fame
Of him who tears and wreath shall claim
While Britain lives, can never die!—J. B.
The following list contains almost all the names that are known to the public, or are distinguished75 by rank or peculiarity77 of circumstance:—
The Count Pietro Gamba, Jan. 31st, 1825.
The Duke of Sussex visited Lord Byron’s tomb, October 1824.
Lieut.-Colonel Wildman.
Lieut.-Colonel Charles Lallemand.
The Count de Blankensee, Chamberlain to the King of Prussia, Sept. 7th, 1825.
1825, Sept. 23. William Fletcher visited his ever-to-be-lamented lord and master’s tomb.[274]
10th month. Jeremiah Wiffen, Woburn Abbey, Bedfordshire.
1826, July 30. C. R. Pemberton, a wanderer.
1828, Jan. 21. Thomas Moore.
Sept. 12. Sir Francis S. Darwin, and party.
Nov. 21. Lieut.-Colonel D’Aguilar.
——— Eliza D’Aguilar.
Dec. 1. Lieut.-Colonel James Hughes of Llysdulles.
Aug. 22. Lieut.-Gen. and Mrs. Need, Fountain Dale.
1832, Jan. 8. M. Van Buren, Minister Plenipotentiary from the United States.
——— Washington Irving.
——— John Van Buren, New York, U. S. America.
Dec. 27. Lady Lammine, Salendale.
1834, Feb. 15. Domingo Maria Ruiz de la Vega, Ex-Deputy of the Spanish Cortes, from Granada.
Feb. 23. J. Bellairs, Esq., visited Newstead Abbey, and Lord Byron’s tomb, such as it is—one of his greatest admirers of the day!
——— W. Arundale, of London, accompanied the said J. B.!
March 8. J. Murray, Jun. Albemarle-street, London.
Although we did not, at this time, enter even the churchyard, thoughts and feelings which had presented themselves in this very spot, on the day of Lord Byron’s funeral, again returned.
His birth, his death, dark fortunes, and brief life,
I saw him marching on from day to day:
The noble youth, whose life-blood was a flame,
In the bright land of demi-gods astray;
Spread on from shore to shore, the watchword of all fame;
And then, a lifeless form! The spell was broke;
The wizard’s wild enchantment84 was destroyed;
And called up beautiful spirits from the void,
Back to the scenes in which he early joyed,
He came but knew it not. In vain earth’s bloom—
Brought him in glory’s arms to the awaiting tomb.[275]
He lies—how quietly that heart which yet
He lies—where first, love, fame, his young soul set
With passionate90 power on flame; where gleam the grey
Of lofty trees, “in circular array,”
And think how he loved her, ay, more than his renown.
ANNESLEY HALL.
From Hucknall we ascended95 chiefly through open, wild lands:—to our right the wooded valley of Newstead, every moment spreading itself out more broadly; and before us the forest heights of Annesley, growing more bold and attractive. A wild gusty96 breeze, and dark flying clouds, added sensibly to the deep solitude97 and picturesque24 character of the scene. We soon passed a cottage, having beside it an old brick pillar surmounted98 with a stone ball, and before it an avenue of lime trees, which appeared some time to have formed the boundary or place of entrance to the park; then a new lodge99, and found ourselves at the foot of the steep hill, styled in Byron’s Dream—
A gentle hill,
The greenness and mildness of declivity, however, we afterwards found were on the side by which Byron and Mary Chaworth had ascended it from her house; on this side it is a remarkably101 barren and extremely steep hill. However, up we went, and on the summit discovered the strict accuracy of his delineation102 of it.
Green, and of mild declivity; the last,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Not by the sport of Nature, but of man.
[276]
A most living landscape it is indeed, including all the objects so vividly111 here given; amongst them, the most conspicuous112, the house of his living ancestors, and the house where he has joined them in death; and extending from the woody skirts of Sherwood Forest to the mill-crowned heights of Nottingham. By the way, a strange mistake of Moore’s here presented itself. Immediately after the passage just quoted, Byron proceeds to speak further of this young pair, and says:—
Even now she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood,
Looking afar, if yet her lover’s steed
Kept pace with her expectancy114, and flew.
Moore, commenting on this, tells us that the image of the lover’s steed was suggested by the Nottingham race-ground,—a race-ground actually nine miles off, and moreover lying in a hollow and totally hidden from view; had the lady’s eyes, indeed, been so marvellously good as to discern a horse nine miles off! Mary Chaworth, in fact, was looking for her lover’s steed along the road as it winds up the common from Hucknall.
But a stranger discovery soon made us forget this Irish bull. We had no sooner reached the summit of the hill, than to our inexpressible astonishment we found the very trees so strikingly pointed115 out in this most interesting poem, “the trees in circular array”—cut down! These trees, and none else, cut down! There were the trees crowning the whole length of the “long ridge” standing in their greyness; and there were the stumps116 of “the trees in circular array” in the earth at our feet! An immediate113 and irresistible117 conviction forced itself on our minds; but we write it not; we merely state the fact, that that memorable118 landmark of love, made interesting to every age by the poetry of passion, had been removed. Our indignation may be imagined when we found that not only had the trees been cut down, but there was an actual attempt to cut down the hill itself, by making a gravel119-pit there;—of all places in the world, to think of making a gravel-pit on the top of that steep hill, when it might be got from the bottom of any hill in the neighbourhood. We have since been told that it was the intention of its present proprietor120, the husband of Mary Chaworth, to have cut down all the trees upon that hill; but that[277] his design was prevented by the interference of his eldest121 son, to whom the estate descends122 by entail123; and that he was compelled by the spirited conduct of the son, to plant the hill afresh; but he has complied with the letter, overlooking the spirit of the agreement, in the most perfect style, having planted the sides of the hill all over with fir-trees, so that it will in a short time shroud the place, and smother124 it completely from the view.[14]
[14] Mentioning the felling of these trees to a mechanic soon afterwards,—“Trees,” I added, “that might be seen so far.” “Seen, sir!” he exclaimed, “those trees were seen all over the world!” He meant through the medium of Byron’s poetry. It was an expression, and accompanied by an energy of feeling, that would have done honour to any man.
The indignation we felt on this occasion, perhaps, made us more sensibly alive to the character of the place. Byron, in some juvenile125 verses, exclaims—
Where my thoughtless childhood strayed,
How the northern tempests warring,
How! above thy tufted shade.
So strongly did the wind drive over this ridge, that we could scarcely make head against it; and remembering to have heard of a temple which formerly crowned this hill, but had been blown down either by tempest or war, we looked amongst the broken ground, and perceived considerable remains of masonry127, probably the foundations of the temple: nor can a finer situation for such an erection be imagined.
The trees which crowned “the ridge,” and which, at a distance, appeared large, we soon saw, were of stunted128 growth, with tops curled, and sturdy, as if accustomed to wrestle129 with the tempests. An avenue of them stretched away into distant woods. Large decayed branches lay here and there beneath, indicating a solitude and neglect of the place pleasing to the imagination. Before us, across a descending130 slope—the hill of mild and green declivity—extended, right and left, noble woods; and in the midst of them, in the midst of a smaller crescent of wood, we descried131 the tall grey chimneys and ivy132-covered walls and gables of the old Hall, and the top of the church-tower. We hastened down,—observing on our left, in an old forest-slope, a large herd133 of deer, which had a good[278] effect,—and struck into a footpath134 that led directly up towards the house. As we drew nearer, the old building, hung with luxuriant ivy and shrouded135 among tall trees, far overtopping its tall chimneys; amid shrubberies of wondrous growth of evergreens136, among which are conspicuous, three remarkable ilexes, with black-green foliage137 crowning their short thick black trunks, and with grassy138 openings sloping down to the warm south; struck us forcibly with its picturesque and silent beauty. We found ourselves now, apparently at the back of a high garden-wall, by the side of which ran a row of lime trees, which seemed at one time to have been pollarded and trained espalier-wise, but had now sent up heads of a luxuriant and fantastic growth. On our other hand, lay a wood, from which the thickets139 being cleared away, left us ample view of its ivy-mantled trees, and the ground beneath them one green expanse of dog’s-mercury and fresh leaves of the blue-bell. Tufts of primroses141 were scattered all about, and the wood-anemonies trembled in the wind. But over all, such a mantle140 of deep silence seemed cast, that it reminded us of some enchanted142 place in the fairy and forest-stories of Tieck.
At the top of this road, turning suddenly to the left, we found ourselves before
The massy gate of that old hall,
from which Byron declares that,
Mounting his steed he went his way,
And ne’er repassed that hoary threshold more.
But all was silent and lifeless. No person was to be discerned in the court to which it opened; there were no signs of life except in the cooing of some pigeons and the cawing of certain jackdaws. We went round the outbuildings into the churchyard, which is level with the top of the court-wall, and looks directly into it. We leaned over a massy parapet, and looked down into this court; the spell of an invincible143 silence seemed to cover the whole place. In the gravel walks which ran round the court, there were traces of carriage wheels; but you felt as if no carriage with the bustle and vivacity144 of active life could ever more enter there. In the centre of the grass-plot, a basin surrounded by a hedge of honeysuckle, and which had doubtless once possessed145 the life and beauty[279] of a fountain, now shewed only water, black, stagnant146, and covered with masses of yellow moss147. We were close to the house; its curtained windows gave it an air of habitation; but no sound nor visible indication of the presence of man was about it. We walked along the green and picturesque churchyard: the back of the buildings on this side of the court bounded part of it; they were in the last state of decay; wide gaps in the roof gave us a view into dark and dreary148 stables. We came to the farm-yard, also joining the churchyard: it had the same aspect of desertion. There was neither cattle nor ricks in it, but the brandreth, or frame on which a rick once stood, littered with decaying straw, and its air of desolation made more striking by a piece of old wooden balustrade cast upon it. There were barn-doors standing wide open; and the litter of the yard even appeared dusty and grey with age. You felt sure no human foot could have disturbed it for years. We descended149 from the churchyard, and went round the farm-buildings once more towards the old “massy gate.” At the back of these buildings were nailed the trophies150 of the gamekeeper by hundreds, we might, we think, say thousands; wild cats, dried to blackness, stretched their downward heads and legs from the wall; hawks151, magpies152, and jays, hung in tattered153 remnants; but all grey and even green with age; and the heads of birds in plenteous rows, nailed beak154 upward, were dried and shrivelled by the sun, and winds, and frosts, of many summers and winters, till their distinctive155 characters were lost. They all seemed to speak the same silent language:—to say, Ay, this was once the abode of a prosperous old family; here were abundance of friends, and dependents going to and fro; horses and hounds going forth156 in vociferous157 joy; abroad was the chase and the sound of the gun,—within were spits turning, and good fellowship; but all this is long since over—a blight158 and a sorrow have fallen here.
We now approached the “massy gateway159” by a wide entrance, which a pair of great doors had once closed—one of these had fallen from its hinges, and the other swung in the wind, banging against its post with a hollow sound, whose echoes told of vacancy160. Above the gateway, the vane on the cupola turned to and fro in the gusty air, with a dreary queek-quake, queek-quake: all besides[280] was still. We stood and looked at each other with an expression that said,—Did you ever see any thing like this? At this moment an old grey dog came softly out of the court—the first living thing we had seen except the jackdaws and the pigeons; quietly he came, as if he too felt the nature of his abode. It was with no vivacity of action, or noisy bark: he stood and silently wagged his tail; and as we drew near him, as silently retreated into the court. We entered this silent place, and looked around. The house formed its western end; stables and coach-houses formed its north and eastern sides; the south was open to the shrubbery. The ivy hung in huge masses from all the walls. In the eastern end was the “massy gateway” mentioned by Byron, arched over, and surmounted by a clock and cupola. So profoundly lifeless and deserted161 seemed the place, that though the clock-finger pointed to the true time of the day—exactly half-past twelve o’clock—our imaginations refused for some time to believe that the clock could actually be going: we felt positive astonishment when it proved to us that it really did.
We now resolved to ascertain162 at the house itself, if it had any living inhabitants; and on approaching the hall-door, we heard a sound in a stable; we went in, and descried, in a dismal163 room adjoining it, a man sitting by a fire in a corner, and a dog lying on the hearth. The man and the place were alike forlorn. They were dirty, squalid, desolate164. We had said, who could have supposed so abandoned a spot so near Nottingham? but who could have imagined so wild and banditti-like a being as that man, within so short a distance of a large town? His dress and person had every character of reckless neglect; his black hair hung about his pale face; he had no handkerchief about his neck; he sate165 and devoured166 his dinner, which he appeared to have cooked with his own hands, looking up at us with ruffian stupidity, as he answered our questions with a surly bluntness, without ceasing to help himself, with a large pocket-knife, and no fork, to his meal. He told us we could not see the house—master never let it be seen. When asked, why? he could not tell—but it was so; but we might ask the old woman in the house. Away we went, and a jewel of an old woman we found.
She was the very beau ideal of an old servant; all simplicity167 and[281] fidelity168, full of the history of the family; wrapped up in its fortunes and its honours—a part and parcel of the race and place, for she had been in the family above sixty years,—being taken, as she said, when she was ten years old, by Mary Chaworth’s grandfather, and put to school, and taught to read and write, to mark and to flower; for she would, he said, be a nice sharp girl to wait on him. “Oh! he was a pretty man—a very pretty, well-behaved gentleman,” said she with a sigh. Old Nanny Marsland, for such was her name, seemed a pure and unsophisticated creature; the regular influx169 of visiters had not spoiled her; the curious and the pert, and the idle, the insolent170 and the foolish, had not troubled the clear sincere current of her thoughts; had not made her heart and spirit turn inward, in self-defence, and converted her into the subtle and parrot shew-woman.
She never dreamt of any thing being blameable that had been done by any of the family. She delighted to talk of the Hall and its people; and feeling her solitude,—for she was the sole regular occupant,—some one to talk to was a luxury. Could we have hoped for a creature more to our hearts’ desire? Under her guidance we progressed through this most interesting old place; thoughts and feelings, never to be forgotten, springing up at every step.
The house is not large; and desertion had stamped within, the same characters as on all without. Damp had disfigured the walls; a fire of cheerful pine-logs blazed in the hall and in the kitchen; but everywhere else was the chill and gloom of the old neglected mansion171. All the more modern furniture, and most of the paintings, had been removed, and thereby172 the keeping of the abode was but the better preserved. We know not how to describe the feelings with which we traversed these rooms. It was as if the hall of one of our old English families had been hidden beneath a magic cloud for ages, and suddenly revealed to our eyes, now, at a time when every thing belonging to this country is so much changed;—houses, men, manners, and opinions. When we entered the old-fashioned family hall, standing as it stood ages ago, furnished as it was ages ago, with its antique stove, its antique sofas, if so they can be called, made of wood carved, and curiously173 painted, and cushioned with scarlet174, standing on each side of the fire; the[282] antique French timepiece on its bracket; its various old cabinets and tables standing by walls; and its floor of large and small squares of alternating black marble and white stone—the domestic sanctuary175 of a race whom we regard as our progenitors176, but widely different to ourselves, seemed suddenly revealed to us, and we could almost have expected to see the rough, boisterous177 squire178, or the stately baron179, issue from one of the side-doors; or to hear the rustling180 of the silken robe of some long-waisted dame181, who could occasionally leap a five-barred gate as readily as she could dance at the Christmas festival; or one of high and solemn beauty, in whom devotion, deep, uninquiring and undoubting, was the great principle and passion of life; to whom the domestic chapel182 was a holy place; the chaplain her daily counsellor; and the distribution of alms her daily occupation. We saw before us the hearthstone of a race that lived in the full enjoyment183 of aristocratic ascendancy184, when rank was old and undisputed; when neither mercantile wealth had pressed on their nobility on the one hand, nor popular knowledge and rights on the other; when the gentry lived only to be reverenced185 and obeyed, every one in the midst of his own forests and domains186 as a king, and led forth his tenants187 and serfs to the wars of his country, or to the chase of his own wide wilds; when field sports and jovial188 feastings, and love-making, were the life-employment of men and women, who took rank and power as an unquestioned heritage, and never troubled their brain with gathering knowledge: and all below them were supposed to be happy, because they were ignorant and submissive.
This hall, which occupies the centre of the building, is nearly sixty feet long by thirty wide, supported by two elliptic arches and Ionic pillars. The middle of the room is now occupied by a billiard-table, which formerly stood in an upper room, called the terrace-room, of which we shall speak presently. The great door, entering from the porch, was secured by a massy bar of wood which had been rudely let into the walls at each end, at the time of the riots of the Reform Bill, when Nottingham Castle was burnt, and when the mob were expected here, who owed the proprietor a piece of retribution, and actually attempted to burn his house at Colwick; whence his wife, Mary Chaworth, only escaped by being carried from her bed, where illness had long confined her, and hidden for some[283] hours in the shrubbery during excessive rain, and afterwards conveyed across the Trent in a boat. At the lower end of this hall an easy flight of steps leads to the upper apartments. Near the fire, at the upper end, a few steps lead into a beautiful little breakfast-room, which looks out into the garden, and forms one of the projections189 of the building, the staircase at the lower end forming the other: the three large, old-fashioned windows which light the hall, lying on this side, and looking out into a little parterre, fenced off with a trellis-fence, even with the two projections we have spoken of—such a parterre as one often meets with, belonging to old houses—a little favoured sanctuary of garden-ground, where choice flowers were trained, and which was the especial care of page and gardener, before ladies took to gardening themselves. This, which is now a perfect wilderness191, almost overrun with shrubs192 and the tall tree-like laurels193 which encumber194 wall and window, and almost exclude daylight from the hall, to the great annoyance195 of our good old woman, was once, as was fitting, the favourite flower-garden of Mary Chaworth.
The little breakfast-room we mentioned, looks out not only by a side window into the parterre, but also by two large low windows into the garden; a fine old garden, with a fine stately old terrace, one of the noblest it was ever our good fortune to see, and such a one as Danby or Turner would be proud to enrich their fine pictures with. In this room were a few family portraits. One a small full-length figure, which the old woman very significantly told us was Byron’s Chaworth; that is, the Chaworth killed by the poet’s grandfather in a duel196. Another portrait she informed us was the last Lord Chaworth; for this estate, which had been in the family of the Annesleys from the time of the Conquest, came into that of Lord Viscount Chaworth of Armagh, in Ireland, by the marriage of one of his ancestors with the sole heiress, Alice de Annesley, in the reign54 of Henry VI. “And this,” she said, pointing to a female portrait, “was his lawful197 wife.” “What then,” we said, “there was an unlawful wife, was there?” “Yes,” she added, “she is here.” We glanced at the picture placed in the shady corner by the window, next, however, to Lord Chaworth, and exclaimed, “and a good judge was his Lordship too!” A creature of most perfect and wondrous beauty it was that we[284] beheld198. What a fine, rich, oval countenance199 and noble forehead slightly shaded by auburn locks! what large dark eyes of inexpressible expression! what a soft, delicate, yet beautiful and sunny complexion200! what a beautiful rounding of the cheek, chin, and throat! what exquisite201 features! what a perfect mixture of nobility of mind, with elegance202 and simplicity of taste. Never did we behold203 a more enchanting204 vision of youth and beauty; and all this hidden for generations in a dark nook of this old hall, unmentioned, and unknown. It were worth a journey from London but to gaze upon. Beautiful as this portrait is, it represents a mole205 upon either cheek; but this, instead of detracting from the loveliness of the face, as might be imagined, only appears to give it character and individuality, and vouches206 for the fidelity of the likeness. The painting, too, is extremely well done; far superior to any thing else in the house, except it be the satin petticoat of a Miss Burdett in the terrace-room. “And who,” we inquired, “was this charming creature?” “She was a girl of the village, sir,” was the reply. “What! could the village produce a creature like her?” “Yes: his Lordship took her into the house as a servant; but she did not like him and went away; however, he got her afterwards, and built a house for her on the estate, and she had one child. But she died, poor thing! all was not right somehow; and all her money she put in a cupboard for her son,—they would shew you the cupboard in the house to this day; and on the very night she died, her own relations came and took away the money;—things weren’t as they should have been! and she came again.” “What, was this the lady that we have heard an old man say, came up out of a well, and sat in a tree by moonlight, combing her hair?” “No, Lord bless you! that was another; but the parson laid her, and the well is covered in; but for all that she walks yet!” We smiled at the good woman’s very orthodox belief in ghosts; but we know not whether we should not be apt to catch the contagion207 of superstitious208 feeling, if we were to dwell all alone in this old house as she does, and hear the winds howling and sighing about it at night; the long ivy rustling about the windows, and dashing against the panes209; and the owls210 hooting211 about in many a wild, piercing, and melancholy tone; and feel oneself in the unparticipated solitude of those ancient rooms, with all their trains of sad memories.
[285]
Besides this portrait of the beautiful and unhappy Mrs. Milner, we bestowed212 a look of great interest on one of much attraction, the daughter of Viscount Chaworth—not beautiful, but full of the fascination213 of cultivated mind, and of a heart so living and loving, that it caused the eyelids214 to droop215 over their beamy orbs216, with an expression that made you tremble for the peace of its possessor. One other picture attracted our attention from its singularity. It represents a landscape, apparently, “the hill of green and mild declivity,” the line of trees, and the trees in circular array, from among which rises the temple we spoke190 of before, and which our cicerone assured us had been considered “the finest in all England, but had been blown down in Oliver Cromwell’s days.” In the foreground stands, as if painted in enamel217, a gentleman in a strange sort of dress-jerkin, of white satin, with a short petticoat of purple velvet218 bordered with gold lace. On his right hand his amazonian lady, half the head taller than himself, clad in a riding-dress of green, bordered likewise with gold-lace; and on either side of them a son, in the full dress of William and Mary’s reign; with powdered wigs219, long lapped scarlet coats, waistcoats, and breeches, with white silk stockings on their neat little legs, and lace ruffles220 at their hands, each with his little head turned on one side;—the one caressing221 a fawn222, the other a greyhound; and the family group completed by the groom223 standing a little behind, holding the lady’s palfrey ready saddled for her use. These, and a portrait of the son of Lord Chaworth, are all the family pictures which the house contains.
Leaving then this room, we re-crossed the hall, and ascending224 the staircase at the lower end, entered the drawing-room, which is over the hall—a handsome room, and the best furnished in the house. The most interesting piece of furniture it contains, or perhaps, which the house itself contains, is a screen covered over with a great number of cuttings in black paper, done by a Mrs. Goodchild, and representing a great variety of family incidents and character—those little passing incidents in life, which, though rarely chronicled, are most influential on its fortunes—on which often its very destiny hangs. The receipt of a letter—the first meeting—the last parting—how much do these things involve! Here we were introduced to Mary Chaworth, the lovely and[286] graceful225 maiden226, full of hope, and life, and gaiety; with her friends and dependents about her; at the very time when Lord Byron became attached to her. Of the accuracy of this likeness we have no doubt, from the wonderful fidelity of some of the others, with whose persons we are acquainted.
Figures on a screen
In one place she is represented as sitting in a room, her attitude one of terror. A man is before her presenting a pistol, and a little terrified page is concealing227 himself under a table. In another, she sits with her mother and a gentleman at tea; a foot-man behind waiting upon them. Again, she is in the gardens or grounds, walking with her cousin, Miss Radford; her rustic hat thrown back upon her shoulders; her beautiful head turned aside; and her hand put forth to receive a letter from a page, kneeling on one knee,—a letter from her lover and subsequent husband.
Again, she is playing with a little child; and in all, her figure is full of exquisite grace and vivacity, and the profile of the face remarkably fine. It is impossible to say with what intense interest we examined these memorials of private life; these passages so full of vitality228 and character, incidental, but important—the very essence of an autobiography229.
On a small table in this room lay a rich fan belonging to Mary Chaworth, which the old woman told us had been laid down by her there on some particular occasion—perhaps the last time she used it, and, therefore, was never moved from the spot. We observed, too, another of those little incidents of family history in this house, which have something peculiarly touching in them. On the staircase[287] stood the sea-chest of a son who died at sea. It stood as it had been sent home after his death, sealed up, and the seals still unbroken. Poor Nanny Marsland said sorrowfully—“Ah, poor fellow! he was a pious230 lad; he would fain have been a clergyman, but he could not be that—for the living went to his elder brother. He did not like the sea; but he used to write to the poor dear lady, his mother, and say—‘God’s will be done!’ Eh! what sweet letters he used to send, if you could but have heard them—but it’s all one—he’s gone; and his poor mother, that used to sit and cry over them—she’s gone too!”
From the drawing-room we passed to the one called the terrace-room, from its opening by a glass door upon the terrace, which runs along the top of the garden at right angles with the house, and level with this second story, descending to the garden by a double flight of broad stone steps, in the middle of its length, which is about eighty yards. This room formerly contained the billiard-table, and in it Mary Chaworth and her noble lover passed much time. He was fond of the terrace, and used to pace backwards231 and forwards upon it, and amuse himself with shooting with a pistol at a door. It was here that she last saw him, with the exception of a dinner-visit, after his return from his travels. It was here that he took his last leave of Mary Chaworth, when
He went his way,
And ne’er repassed that hoary threshold more.
It was here, then, those ill-fated ones stood, and lingered, and conversed232, for at least two hours. Mary Chaworth was here all life and spirit, full of youth, and beauty, and hope. What a change fell upon her after-life! She now stood here, the last scion233 of a time-honoured race, with large possessions, with the fond belief of sharing them in joy with the chosen of her life. Never did human life present a sadder contrast! There are many reasons why we should draw a veil over this mournful history, much of which will never be known; suffice it to say, that it was not without most real, deep, and agonizing234 causes, that years after,
In her home, her native home,
Daughters and sons of beauty,—but behold![288]
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
As if its lid was charged with unshed tears.
It was not without a fearful outraging238 of trusting affections, the desolation of a spirit trodden and crushed by that which should have shielded it, that
She was changed
As by the sickness of the soul: her mind
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others’ sight, familiar were to hers.
There must have come a day, a soul-prostrating day, when she must have felt the grand mistake she had made, in casting away a heart that never ceased to love her and sorrow for her, and a mind that wrapt her, even severed241 as it was from her, in an imperishable halo of glory.
There is nothing in all the histories of broken affections and mortal sorrows, more striking and melancholy than the idea of this lady, so bright and joyous-hearted in her youth, sitting in her latter years, for days and weeks, alone and secluded242, uninterrupted by any one, in this old house, weeping over the poems which commented in burning words on the individual fortunes of herself and Lord Byron—
The one
With this idea vividly impressed on our spirits, a darker shade seemed to settle down on those antiquated244 rooms;—we passed out into the garden, at the door at which Byron passed; we trod that stately terrace, and gazed at the old vase placed in the centre of its massy balustrade, bearing the original escutcheon of the Lord Chaworth, and standing a brave object as seen from the garden, into which we descended, and wandered amongst its high-grown evergreens. But every thing was tinged245 with the spirit and fate of that unhappy lady. The walks were overgrown with grass; and[289] tufts of snowdrop leaves, now grown wild and shaggy, as they do after the flower is over, grew in them; and tufts of a beautiful and peculiar kind of fumitory, with its pink bloom, and the daffodils and primroses of early spring looked out from amongst the large forest trees that surround the garden. Every thing, even the smallest, seemed in unison246 with that great spirit of silence and desolation which hovered247 over the place; and the gusty winds that swept the long wood-walk by which we came away, gave us a most fitting adieu.
We only saw just in time, this interesting old place in its desolation. It is now repaired, altered, and, I understand, every historical identity as far as possible destroyed.
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1
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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patrimonial
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| adj.祖传的 | |
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8
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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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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11
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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12
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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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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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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17
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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18
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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20
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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21
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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24
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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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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26
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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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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confluence
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| n.汇合，聚集 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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32
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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33
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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34
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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35
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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37
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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38
radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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39
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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40
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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41
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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42
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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43
redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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44
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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45
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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46
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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47
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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50
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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59
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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67
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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68
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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69
reposes
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的第三人称单数 ) | |
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70
trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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71
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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72
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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73
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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74
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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75
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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76
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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77
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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78
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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79
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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80
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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81
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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82
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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83
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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84
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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85
invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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86
buoyed
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| v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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87
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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88
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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89
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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90
passionate
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|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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91
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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92
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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93
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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94
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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95
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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97
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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98
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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99
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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100
declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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101
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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102
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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103
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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104
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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105
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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106
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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107
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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108
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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109
diadem
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| n.王冠，冕 | |
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110
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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111
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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112
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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113
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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114
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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115
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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116
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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117
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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118
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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119
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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120
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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121
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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122
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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123
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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124
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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125
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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126
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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127
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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128
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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129
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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130
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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131
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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132
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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133
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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134
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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135
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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136
evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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137
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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138
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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139
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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140
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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141
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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142
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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143
invincible
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|
| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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144
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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145
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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146
stagnant
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|
| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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147
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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148
dreary
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|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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149
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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150
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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151
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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152
magpies
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| 喜鹊（magpie的复数形式） | |
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153
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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154
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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155
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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156
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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157
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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158
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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159
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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160
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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161
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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162
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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163
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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164
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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165
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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166
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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167
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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168
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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169
influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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170
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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171
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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172
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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173
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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174
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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175
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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176
progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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177
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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178
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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179
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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180
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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181
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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182
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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183
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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184
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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185
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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186
domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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187
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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188
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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189
projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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190
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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191
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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192
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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193
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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194
encumber
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| v.阻碍行动，妨碍，堆满 | |
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195
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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205
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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206
vouches
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| v.保证( vouch的第三人称单数 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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outraging
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的现在分词 ) | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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240
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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241
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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242
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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243
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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246
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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247
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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