We left Annesley, as we have said, by that long wood-walk which leads to the Mansfield road; and advancing on that road about a mile, then turned to the right through a deep defile1 down into the fields. Here we found ourselves in an extensive natural amphitheatre, surrounded by bold declivities—in some places bleak2 and barren, in others, richly embossed with furze and broom. Before us, at the distance of another mile, lay Newstead amid its woods, across a moory3 flat. The wind whistled and sighed amongst the dry, white, wiry grass, of last year’s growth, as we walked along; and a solitary4 heron, with slow strokes of its ample wings, flew athwart—not our path, for path we had none, having been tempted5 into the fields by the beauty of the scene. We followed the course of a little stream, clear as crystal, and swift as human life, and soon found ourselves at the tail of the lake so often referred to by Lord Byron.
Broad as transparent8, deep and freshly fed
In currents through the calmer water spread
And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed:
It was a scene that would have delighted Bewick for its picturesque[291] sedgyness. The streams that fed it came down a woody valley shaggy with sedge—the lake thereabout being bordered with tall masses of it. There was a little island all overgrown with it and water-loving trees; and wild fowl in abundance were hastening to hide themselves in its covert14, or arose and flew around with a varied15 clangour. Another moment, and we passed a green knoll16, and were in front of the Abbey. John Evelyn, who once visited it, was much struck with the resemblance between its situation and that of Fontainbleau.
Here all was neat and habitable—had an air of human life and human attention about it, that formed a strong contrast to the scene of melancholy17 desolation we had left; and also to this same scene when I visited it years ago, at the time when it was sold, I believe, to a Mr. Claughton, who afterwards, for some cause or other, threw up the bargain. To give an idea of the impression this place made upon me, I shall merely refer to an account furnished by me many years ago to a periodical of the time, which account was partly quoted by Galt in his Life of Lord Byron, and made liberal use of by Moore, though without acknowledgment. I was a boy, rambling18 through the woods nutting, when suddenly, I came in front of the Abbey, which I had never seen before, and learned from a peasant who happened to be near, that I might get to see it for the value of an ounce of tobacco given to old Murray, a grey-headed old man—who had been in the family from a boy, and who now, at his own request, lies buried in Hucknall churchyard, as close to the family vault19 as it was possible to lay him. He and a maid-servant were then the only inmates20 of the place, being left to superintend the removal of the goods. I marched up to the dismal-looking porch in front, to which you ascended21 by a flight of steps, and gave a thundering knock, which almost startled me by the hollow sound it seemed to send through the ancient building. After waiting a good while, some one approached, and began to withdraw bars and bolts, and to let fall chains; and presently, the old grey-headed man opened the massy door cautiously, to a width just sufficient to enable him to see who was there. Finding nothing more formidable than a boy, he opened wide, and I inquired if I could see the place. The old man first looked at me, and then around, and said, “How many are there of you?” As[292] he was evidently calculating the probable amount of profit, I gave him such evidence of sufficient reward that his doors instantly flew open, and he desired me to wander where I pleased, till he could return to me, having left some important affair in medias res. Here then was a wilderness22 of an old house thrown open to me, and the effect it had on my youthful imagination is indescribable.
The embellishments which the abbey had received from his lordship, had more of the brilliant conception of the poet in them than of the sober calculations of common life. I passed through many rooms which he had superbly finished, but over which he had permitted so wretched a roof to remain, that, in about half a dozen years, the rain had visited his proudest chambers23; the paper had rotted on the walls, and fell in comfortless sheets upon glowing carpets and canopies25; upon beds of crimson26 and gold; clogging27 the glittering wings of eagles, and dishonouring28 coronets. From many rooms the furniture was gone. In the entrance hall alone remained the paintings of his old friends—the dog and bear.
The mansion’s self was vast and venerable,
With more of the romantic than had been
The cells too and refectory I ween;
Still unimpaired to decorate the scene;
The rest had been reformed, replaced, or sunk,
Might shock a connoisseur38; but, when combined,
Formed a whole, which, irregular in parts,
Yet left a grand impression on the mind,
At least, of those whose eyes are in their hearts.
The long and gloomy gallery, which, whoever views will be strongly reminded of Lara, as indeed a survey of this place will awake more than one scene in that poem,—had not yet relinquished39 the sombre pictures of its ancient race—
That frowned
In rude, but antique portraiture40 around.
In the study, which is a small chamber24 overlooking the garden, the books were packed up; but there remained a sofa, over which[293] hung a sword in a gilt41 sheath; and at the end of the room opposite the window stood a pair of light fancy stands, each supporting a couple of the most perfect and finely-polished skulls43 I ever saw; most probably selected, along with the far-famed one converted into a drinking-cup, and inscribed44 with some well-known verses, from a vast number taken from the abbey cemetery45, and piled up in the form of a mausoleum, but since recommitted to the ground. Between them hung a gilt crucifix.
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head,
That still beside his open volume lay,
As if to startle all save him away?
And they most probably suggested that fine passage in Childe Harold—
Is that a temple where a God may dwell?
Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall,
Yes, this was once ambition’s airy hall,
In the servants’ hall, lay a stone coffin58, in which were fencing gloves and foils; and on the wall of the ample but cheerless kitchen, was painted in large letters, “Waste not, want not.”
During a great part of his lordship’s minority, the abbey was in the occupation of Lord Grey de Ruthen, his hounds, and divers59 colonies of jackdaws, swallows, and starlings. The internal traces of this Goth were swept away; but without, all appeared as rude and unreclaimed as he could have left it. I must confess, that if I was astonished at the heterogeneous60 mixture of splendour and ruin within, I was more so at the perfect uniformity of wildness without. I never had been able to conceive poetic61 genius in its domestic[294] bower62, without figuring it, diffusing63 the polish of its delicate taste on every thing about it. But here the spirit of beauty seemed to have dwelt, but not to have been caressed;—it was the spirit of the wilderness. The gardens were exactly as their late owner described them in his earliest poems:—
Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle;
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay;
Now choke up the rose, that late bloomed in the way.
With the exception of the dog’s tomb—a conspicuous65 and elegant object, placed on an ascent66 of several steps, crowned with a lambent flame, and panelled with white marble tablets, of which that containing the celebrated67 epitaph was at that time removed, I do not recollect69 the slightest trace of culture or improvement. The late lord, a stern and desperate character, who is never mentioned by the neighbouring peasants without a significant shake of the head, might have returned and recognised every thing about him, except, perchance, an additional crop of weeds. There still gloomily slept the old pond, into which he is said to have hurled70 his lady in one of his fits of fury, whence she was rescued by the gardener; a courageous71 blade, who was the lord’s master, and chastised72 him for his barbarity. There still, at the end of the garden, in a grove73 of oak, two towering satyrs—he with his club, and Mrs. Satyr, with her chubby74, cloven-footed brat68, placed on pedestals, at the intersections75 of the narrow and gloomy pathways, struck for a moment, with their grim visages, and silent, shaggy forms, the fear into your bosoms76, which is felt by the neighbouring peasantry at “the old lord’s devils.”
In the lake below the abbey, the artificial rock, which he piled at a vast expense, still reared its lofty head; but the frigate77 which fulfilled old Mother Shipton’s prophecy, by sailing on dry land to this place from a distant port, had long vanished; and the only relics78 of his naval79 whim80 were this rock, and his ship-boy, the venerable old Murray, who accompanied me round the premises81. The dark, haughty82, impetuous, and mad deeds of this nobleman, the poet’s grandfather, no doubt, by making a vivid impression on his youthful fancy, furnished some of the principal materials for the formation of his lordship’s favourite and ever-recurring poetical[295] hero. His manners and acts are the theme of many a winter’s evening in that neighbourhood. In one of his paroxysms of wrath83, he shot his coachman, for giving, in his opinion, an improper84 precedence, threw the corpse85 into the carriage, to his lady, mounted, and drove himself. In a quarrel, which originally arose out of a dispute between their gamekeepers, he killed his neighbour, Mr. Chaworth, the lord of the adjoining manor86. This rencontre took place at the Star and Garter, Pall-Mall, after a convivial87 meeting—a club of Nottinghamshire gentlemen. His lordship was committed to the Tower, and on April 16th, 1765, placed at the bar of the House of Lords, and without one dissentient voice, convicted of manslaughter, and discharged on paying his fees, having pleaded certain privileges under a statute88 of Queen Anne. The particulars may be seen in Vol. X. of State Trials, published by order of the House of Peers.
The old lord, from some cause of irritation89 against his son, said to be on account of his marriage, who died before coming to the title, did all he could to injure the estate. He is said to have pulled down a considerable part of the house, and sold the materials; he cut down very extensive plantations90, and sold the young trees to the bakers91 of Nottingham to heat their ovens with, or to the nurserymen; two of which, Lombardy poplars, bought at that time, now stand at the head of a fish-pond of my father’s, grown to an immense size.
Mr. Moore has justly remarked, that Lord Byron derived92 the great peculiarities93 of his character from his ancestors. After I came away from the abbey, I asked many people in the neighbourhood what sort of a man the noble poet had been. The impression of his energetic but eccentric character was obvious in their reply. “He is the deuce of a fellow for strange fancies; he flogs the old lord to nothing: but he is a hearty94 good fellow for all that.”
One of these fancies, as related by the miller95 at the head of the lake, was, to get into a boat, with his two noble Newfoundland dogs, row into the middle of the lake, then dropping the oars96, tumble into the water. The faithful animals would immediately follow, seize him by the collar, one on each side, and bear him to land. This miller told me that every month he came to be weighed, and if he[296] found himself lighter97 he appeared highly delighted; but if heavier, he went away in obvious ill humour, and without saying a word. At this time even, i. e. before he came of age, he had the greatest horror of corpulency, to which he deemed himself hereditarily98 prone99, and used to lie a certain time every day in a hot-bed, made on purpose, to reduce himself. The master-builder, who had been engaged in the restoration of the abbey, said much about a certain Kaled, who then was with him,—probably the same that accompanied him to Brighton, as his younger brother,—and of the wild life kept up, and mad pranks100 played off, by him and his companions. He described the mornings passing in the most profound quiet, for his lordship and his guests did not rise till about one o’clock; in the afternoon, the place was all alive with them;—they were seen careering in all directions; at midnight, the old abbey was all lit up, and resounded101 with their jollity. On one occasion they were called up to extricate102 an unfortunate wight from the old stone coffin, where, in some of their mad pranks, he had secreted103 himself, and fitted it so well, that it was with difficulty he was drawn104 out, amid the merriment of his comrades. No person, indeed, could form any correct notion of Byron from his poetry, till the publication of his Don Juan, which exhibits more of the style of his youthful conversational105 manner than any other of his writings, except his journal. I have heard a lady who used to see him at Mrs. Byron’s, at Nottingham, say that he was then, in his teens, a most rackety fellow; was very fond of going into the kitchen, and baking oatmeal cakes on the fireshovel; on which occasions, the cook would sometimes pin a napkin to his coat, which being discovered on his return to the parlour, he would rush out and pursue the maids in all directions, and, to use the lady’s phrase, turn the house upside down. When they went away, he always took care to ask the servants if his mother had given them any thing; and on their replying in the negative, he would say, “No, no! I knew that well enough;” when he would make them a handsome present.
Such anecdotes106 of his youth abound107; but one is too characteristic to be omitted. An old man of the name of Kemp, of Farnsfield, was one day in Southwell, when a dog in the minster-yard fell upon his little dog. He was beating it off, when a genteel[297] boy came up, and in a very decided108 tone said, “Let them fight it out—they find their own clothes, don’t they?” The old man said, clothes or no clothes, his dog should not be worried. A stander-by asked him if he knew to whom he spoke. The old man said he neither knew nor cared. “It is Lord Byron,” said the person; but the old man said he did not care whether he was a lord or a duke, they should not worry his dog; and having got his little dog under his arm, he marched off in none of the best humour. Some time afterwards, however, seeing “Hours of Idleness and other Poems, by Lord Byron,” advertised, he recollected109 the spirit of the lad with so much admiration110, that he took his stick and set off to Newark to purchase the book, and always afterwards remained a great admirer of his works.
Such was my acquaintance with the place then; it is now a good, substantial, and very comfortable family mansion. With its external appearance the public is well acquainted through various prints; and the only objects in the interior, which can much interest strangers, as connected with the history of Lord Byron, are equally familiar. The picture of his wolf-dog, and his Newfoundland-dog—the living Newfoundland-dog which he had with him in Greece; the skull-cup kept in a cabinet in the drawing-room, and the little chapel and cloisters mentioned by him. There are also in a lumber-room the identical stone-coffin, and the foils I saw there twenty years ago, and a portrait of old Murray smoking his pipe. There is also the well-known portrait by Phillips. A full-length likeness111 of him as about to embark112 on his first travels, which was in the drawing-room at that time, is now gone, but has been engraved113 for Mr. Murray’s edition of his Life and Works.
It is fortunate for the public that the place has fallen into the hands of a gentleman who affords the utmost facility for the inspection114 of it by strangers. Nothing can exceed the easy courtesy with which it is thrown open to them; and, as an old schoolfellow of Lord Byron’s, we believe Colonel Wildman is as desirous as any man can be not to obliterate115 any traces of his lordship’s former life here. There are some particulars, however, in which I think this care might have been carried more thoroughly116 into act. In the first place, I think a style of architecture in restoring the abbey might[298] have been adopted more abbey-like—more in keeping with the old part of it—and more consonant117 to the particular state of feeling with which admirers of the noble poet’s genius would be likely to approach it. To my taste it is too square and massy in its tout118 ensemble119. I do not see why the architect, whoever he was, should have gone back in the date of his style beyond that of the ancient remains120. The old western front is a specimen121 of what Rickman calls the early English order of Anglo-Gothic architecture; so light, so airy, so pure and beautiful, that the juxta-position of a heavy Norman style, and especially of the ponderous122, square, and stunted123 tower at the south-west corner, is strange, and anything but pleasing. A greater variety of outline—the projection124 of porches and buttresses—the aspiring125 altitude of pointed126 gables—clustered chimneys, and slender, sky-seeking turrets127, would certainly have given greater effect. Instead of a square mass of stone, as it appears at a distance, it would have proclaimed its own beauty to the eye from every far-off point at which it may be discovered. Any one who has seen Fonthill, Abbotsford from the Galashiel’s road, or Ilam from the entrance of Dovedale, may imagine how much more that effect would be in accordance, not only with a low situation, but with the mental impressions of a poetic visiter.
I cannot help, too, regretting that the poet’s study should now be converted into a common bed-room; and most of all, that the antique fountain which stood in front of the abbey, and makes so strong a feature in the very graphic128 picture of the place drawn in Don Juan, should be removed. It now adorns129 the inner quadrangle, or cloister30 court, and is certainly a very beautiful object there, as may be seen by the print in Murray’s edition of Byron’s Works. I do not wonder at Colonel Wildman desiring to grace this court with a fountain, but I wonder extremely at his gracing it with this fountain. I must for ever deplore130 its removal, as the breaking up of that most vivid picture of the front, given by the poet to all posterity:—
A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile,
While yet the church was Rome’s, stood half apart,
These last had disappeared—a loss to art;
The first yet frowned superbly o’er the soil,
Which mourned the power of time’s or tempest’s march,[299]
In gazing on that venerable arch.
Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone:
And these had fallen, not when the friars fell,
But in the war which struck Charles from his throne.
*****
But in a higher niche, alone, but crowned,
With her son in her blessed arms, looked round,
Spared by some chance, when all beside was spoiled;
She made the earth below seem holy ground.
This may be superstition136 weak, or wild;
Of any worship, wake some thoughts divine.
Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings,
Through which the deepened glories once could enter,
Streaming from off the sun like seraph’s wings,
Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter,
Amid the court a Gothic fountain played,
Strange faces, like to men in masquerade,
And here, perhaps, a monster, there a saint:
And sparkled into basins, where it spent
Like man’s vain glory, and his vainer troubles.
It was seeing how exactly all this was a copy of the original—how there stood the mighty window, shewing through it the garden and dog’s tomb—how the Virgin there still stood aloft with her child, distinct, bold, and beautiful—but the fountain was gone, that we could not help loudly expressing our regret. When the valet who attended us came to the inner court, “There,” he said, “you see is the fountain—it is all there, quite perfect.” “Yes, yes,” we could not help replying, “that is the very thing we are sorry for—its being all there. A man might cut off his nose, and put it in his pocket, and when any one wondered at his mutilated face, cry, ‘O, it is all here; I have it in my pocket.’ The mischief146 would be,[300] that it was in the wrong place, and his face spoiled for ever.” To every visiter of taste, the abbey front must be thus injured whilst it and the poet’s description of it last together.
These are things to regret; for the rest, the place is a very pleasant place. The new stone-work is very substantially and well done; there is a great deal of modern elegance147 about the house; a fortune must have been spent upon it. The grounds before the new front are extremely improved; and the old gardens, with very correct feeling, have been suffered to retain their ancient character. An oak planted by Lord Byron is shewn; and why should he not have a tree as well as Shakspeare, Milton, and Johnson? The initials of himself and his sister upon a tree in the satyr-grove at the end of the garden, are said to have been pointed out by his sister herself, the Honourable148 Mrs. Leigh, on her visit there some time ago. The tree has two boles issuing from one root, a very appropriate emblem149 of their consanguinity150.
The scenery around presents many features that recal incidents in his life, or passages in his poems. There are the houses where Fletcher and Rushton lived—the two followers151 of his, who are addressed in the ballad152 in the first canto153 of Childe Harold, beginning at the third stanza—
Come hither, hither, my little page:
But in the progress of improvement, the mill, where he used to be weighed, is just now destroyed. Down the valley, in front of the abbey, is a rich prospect154 over woods, and around are distant slopes scattered155 with young plantations, that in time will add eminently156 to the beauty of this secluded157 spot; and supply the place, in some degree, of those old and magnificent woods in which the abbey was formerly158 embosomed.
Here ended our ramble159, having gone over ground and through places that the genius of one man in a brief life has sanctified to all times; for like us—
Hither romantic pilgrims shall betake
Themselves from distant lands. When we are still
In centuries of sleep, his fame will wake,
And his great memory with deep feelings fill
These scenes that he has trod, and hallow every hill.
[301]
Here too we leave the Old Houses of England, in the words of John Evelyn:—“Other there are, sweet and delectable160 country-seats and villas161 of the noblesse, and rich and opulent gentry162, built and environed with parks, paddocks, plantations, etc.: adapted to country and rural seats, dispersed163 through the whole nation, conspicuous, not only for the structure of their houses, built upon the best rules of architecture, but for situation, gardens, canals, walks, avenues, parks, forests, ponds, prospects164, and vistas165; groves166, woods, and large plantations; and other the most charming and delightful167 recesses168, natural and artificial; but to enumerate169 and describe what were extraordinary in these and the rest would furnish volumes, for who has not either seen, admired, or heard of—
Audley-End, Althorpe, Auckland, Aqualate-Hall, Alnwick, Allington, Ampthill, Astwell, Aldermaston, Aston, Alveston, Alton-Abbey.
Bolsover, Badminster, Breckley, Burghly-on-the-Hill, and the other Burghly, Breton, Buckhurst, Buckland, Belvoir, Blechington, Blenheim, Blythfield, Bestwood, Broomhall, Beaudesert.
Castle-Rising, Castle-Ashby, Castle-Donnington, Castle-Howard, Chatsworth, Chartley, Cornbury, Cashiobury, Cobham, Cowdrey, Caversham, Cranbourn-Park, Clumber, Charlton, Copt-Hall, Claverton, famous for Sir William Bassett’s vineyard, producing forty hogsheads of wine yearly; nor must I forget that of Deepden, planted by the Honourable Charles Howard, of Norfolk, my worthy170 neighbour in Surrey.
Drayton, Donnington-Park, Dean.
Eastwell, Euston, Eccleswould, Edscombe, Easton, Epping.
Falston, Flankford, Fonthill, Fountains-Abbey.
Greystock, Goodrick, Grooby, Grafton, Gayhurst, Golden-Grove.
Hardwick, Hadden, Hornby, Hatfield, Haland, Heathfield, Hinton, Holme-Pierrepont, Horstmounceaux, Houghton.
Ichinfield, Ilam, Ingestre.
Kirby, Knowsley, Keddleston.
Longleat, Latham, Lensal, Latimer, Lyne-Hall, Lawnsborough.
Morepark, Mulgrave, Marlborough, Margum, Mount Edgcombe.
Normanby, North-Hall, Norborough, Newnham, Newstead.
St. Ostlo, Oxnead.
Petworth, Penshurst, Paston-Hall.
Quorndon, Quickswood.
Ragland, Retford, Ragley, Ricot, Rockingham, Raby.
Sherbourn, Sherley, Swallowfield, Stanton-Harold, Shasford, Shaftbury, Shugborough, Sandon, Stowe, Stansted, Scots-Hall, Sands of the Vine.
Theobalds, Thornkill, Thornhill, Trentham.
Up-Park.
Wilton, Wrest171, Woburn, Wollaton, Worksop-Manor, Woodstock, which, as Camden tells us, was the first park in England, Wimburn, Writtle-Park, Warwick-Castle, Wentworth.”
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defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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moory
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| adj.摩尔人的，（建筑、家具等）摩尔人式的，摩尔人风格的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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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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covert
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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knoll
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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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rambling
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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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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chamber
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canopies
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| （宝座或床等上面的）华盖( canopy的名词复数 )； （飞行器上的）座舱罩； 任何悬于上空的覆盖物； 森林中天棚似的树荫 | |
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crimson
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clogging
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dishonouring
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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30
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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31
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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32
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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33
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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34
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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35
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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36
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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37
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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38
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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39
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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40
portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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41
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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42
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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43
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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44
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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45
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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46
alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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48
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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49
disdains
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| 鄙视，轻蔑( disdain的名词复数 ) | |
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50
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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51
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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52
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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53
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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54
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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55
brooked
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| 容忍，忍受（brook的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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56
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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57
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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58
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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59
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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60
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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61
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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62
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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63
diffusing
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| （使光）模糊，漫射，漫散( diffuse的现在分词 )； （使）扩散； （使）弥漫； （使）传播 | |
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64
hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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65
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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66
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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67
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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68
brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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69
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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70
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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71
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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72
chastised
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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73
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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74
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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75
intersections
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| n.横断( intersection的名词复数 )；交叉；交叉点；交集 | |
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76
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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77
frigate
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| n.护航舰，大型驱逐舰 | |
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78
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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79
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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80
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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81
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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82
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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83
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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84
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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85
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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86
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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87
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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88
statute
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| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
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89
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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90
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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91
bakers
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| n.面包师( baker的名词复数 )；面包店；面包店店主；十三 | |
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92
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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93
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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94
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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95
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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96
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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97
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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98
hereditarily
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| 世袭地，遗传地 | |
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99
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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100
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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101
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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102
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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103
secreted
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的过去式和过去分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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104
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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105
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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106
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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107
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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108
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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109
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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111
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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112
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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113
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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114
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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115
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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116
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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117
consonant
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| n.辅音；adj.[音]符合的 | |
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118
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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119
ensemble
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| n.合奏(唱)组；全套服装；整体，总效果 | |
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120
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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121
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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122
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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123
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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124
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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125
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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126
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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127
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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128
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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129
adorns
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| 装饰，佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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130
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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131
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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132
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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133
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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134
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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135
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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136
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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137
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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138
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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139
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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140
anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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141
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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142
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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143
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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144
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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145
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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146
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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147
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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148
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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149
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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150
consanguinity
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| n.血缘；亲族 | |
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151
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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152
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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153
canto
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| n.长篇诗的章 | |
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154
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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155
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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156
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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157
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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158
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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159
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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160
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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161
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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162
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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163
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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164
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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165
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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166
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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167
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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168
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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169
enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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170
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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171
wrest
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| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
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