This forest seems to retain not only more of the forest character than all our other forests, but to have maintained more exactly its ancient boundaries. William of Malmsbury says, the Conqueror1 laid waste thirty miles of country for this forest. The perambulation of the 22d of Charles II., extending from Milton south along the Avon west, to Bramshire north, and within Southampton Water east, by Fawley and Boldre back to Milton, includes about thirty miles square, and this is the extent that is now attributed to it by the inhabitants of the neighbourhood. In the present hundred of New Forest, we have the parishes of Minstead, Fawley, and Boldre; the chapels3, or curacies of Lyndhurst, Beaulieu, Exbury, and Brokenhurst. It is indeed the only one of our forests which now can give us a perfect idea of what an English[367] forest was in the feudal4 ages. It has not acquired, like Windsor, too much of a park-like character by containing a royal residence; nor has it been enclosed, and shaped into quadrangular fields: but there it is, in its original extent,—vast, wild, stocked with deer; with its alternations of woods and heaths, morasses5 and thickets6; interspersed7 with hamlets and farms, and forest-huts, as were the forests of old.
There are the glorious ruins of Beaulieu, of which the able historian of Winchester thus speaks:—“The curious traveller who visits Beaulieu, descends8 at once into a lovely vale, enclosed with lofty trees, covered with the richest verdure, and watered by a flowing river, the whole of which seem to be the effect of magic. In the most enchanting10 part of this scene stands the ancient abbey. He will see, in the first place, the outward gate of the sanctuary11, to which the brave but unfortunate Margaret of Anjou, the venturous impostor, Perkin Warbeck, and other fugitive12 victims of the laws, fled, with breathless haste, for safety. He will next come to the abbot’s house, with its turrets13, moats, and other miniature fortifications, as perfect, and in as good condition as when it was first built. Here fugitives14 of distinction were entertained. From this he will enter and survey the spacious15 and noble refectory, now the parish church, rich with innumerable ornaments16 and monuments of past ages. Finally, he will trace in the splendid remains17 of the cloisters18, chapter-house, and church, the chief effort, if not of the piety19, at least of the taste and magnificence of the unfortunate king John.”
As you go from Southampton to Lyndhurst, you have a fine ride through the lower regions of the forest, and see enough to make you desire to steal away into the beautiful woodlands. Lovely streams come winding20 out of its shades, and hasten towards the sea. You get glimpses of forest glades21, and peeps under the trees into distant park-like expanses, or heathy-wastes. The deer are wandering here and there: here you see whole troops of those ponies23 peculiar24 to this forest; pheasants and partridges come often running out on the way before you. All about grow hollies25, which were encouraged in most ancient forests for winter browze; and you have glimpses of forest trees that were enough to enrich all the landscape painters in the world. But if you wish[368] to know really what New Forest is, you must plunge26 into its very heart, and explore its farthest recesses27. You may go on from wood to wood, and from heath to heath; now coming out on the high ground, as on the Ringwood road, the wild forest lying visible for miles around, and the country towards Southampton and to the very sea, all spread out wide and beautifully to the eye;—now descending28 into profound solitudes30, and the depth of woodland gloom. It is a wild, wide region, in which you may satiate yourselves with nature in its primitive31 freedom. In Bilhaghe, in the forest of Sherwood, you find a fragment of an ancient forest unique in its kind,—a region of old oaks, shattered by the tempests of five hundred years, and standing32 in all the hoary33 grandeur34 of age; and are thereby35 struck with a quick feeling of the mighty36 flight of time,—of the utter change and revolution of manners and government since those trees were in their prime; but when you step into the New Forest, you step at once out of the present world into the past. You do not see it existing before your eyes as a remnant of antiquity38, but as a portion of it, into which, as by some charm, you are carried. It is not a decaying relic39; it is a perfect and present thing. The trees are not scathed40 and hollow skeletons, except in some few places, but stand the full-grown and vigorous giants of the wood. This is owing to the timber being cut down for the navy ere it begins to perish, and yet being left to attain41 a sufficient growth, and to furnish vast woods that extend over hill and dale, and give you foot-room for days and weeks without fear of exhausting the novelty. It looks now as it must have looked to the eye of one of our Norman monarchs42, except that the marks of the Conqueror’s ravages43 and fires are worn out; the ruins of churches and cottages are buried beneath the accumulated mosses44 and earth of ages; and peaceful smoke ascends45 from woodland habitations.
In my brief visit to it, I set out from Lyndhurst, and walked up to Stony-Cross, the place of Rufus’s death. From the moment that I turned up out of Lyndhurst, I seemed to have entered an ancient region. There was an old-world primitive air about every thing, that filled me with a peculiar feeling of poetry. I left behind the nineteenth century, and was existing in the twelfth or fourteenth. Open knolls46, and ascending47 woodlands on one side,[369] covered with majestic48 beeches49, and the village children playing under them; on the other, the most rustic50 cottages, almost buried in the midst of their orchard51 trees, and thatched as Hampshire cottages only are—in such projecting abundance,—such flowing lines. Thatch52 does not here seem the stiff and intractable thing it does elsewhere; nor is it cut in that square, straight-haired fashion; but it seems the kindliest thing in the world. It bends over gables and antique casements53 in the roof, and comes sweeping54 down over fronts resting on pillars, and forming verandas55 and porches; or over the ends of the houses, down to the very ground, forming the nicest sheds for plants, or places to deposit garden-tools, milk-pails, or other rural apparatus56. The whole of the cottages thereabout are in equal taste with the roof; so different to the red, staring, square brick houses of manufacturing districts. They seem, as no doubt they are, erected57 in the spirit, and under the influence, of the genius loci. The beehives in their rustic rows; the little crofts, all belong to a primitive country. I went on; now coming to small groups of such places; now to others of superior pretensions58, but equally blent with the spirit of the surrounding nature;—little paradises of cultivated life. As I advanced, heathery hills stretched away on one hand; woods came down thickly and closely on the other, and a winding road beneath the shade of large old trees, conducted me to one of the most retired59 and peaceful of hamlets. It was Minstead. There was an old school-house; and beneath the large trees that overshadowed the way, lay huge trunks of trees cut ready for conveyance60 to the naval61 dockyards; and the forest children, on their way to school, were playing amongst them; now climbing upon them, now pushing each other off with merry laughter; boys and girls, as I approached, scampering62 away, and into the school.
I know not how it is, but such places of woodland and old-fashioned seclusion63, of such repose64 and picturesque65 simplicity66, always bring strongly to my mind the stories of Tieck. There must be a great similarity in the aspect of these scenes, and of those which he has so much delighted to describe. I thought of the old woman with her dog and bird. Every solitary67 cottage seemed just as hers was. I seemed to hear the birch-trees shiver in the breeze, the dog bark, and the bird sing its magic song:
[370]
Alone in wood so gay
’Tis good to stay,
Morrow like to-day
For ever and aye:
O, I do love to stay
Alone in wood so gay.
It was early autumn. All birds really had ceased to sing; and the deep hush68 of nature but made more distinct this spirit-song, amid the delicious reveries in which I went wandering along, enveloped69 as in a heavenly cloud. All over the moorland ground spread the crimson70 glow of the heather. I went onward71 and upward; passing the gates of forest lodges73, and looking down into valleys, whence arose the smoke of huts and charcoal74 fires. And anon, I stood upon the airy height, and saw woods below, and felt near me solitude29, and a spirit that had brooded there for ages. I passed over high, still heaths, treading on plants that grow only in nature’s most uncultivated soil, to the mighty beeches of Boldre Wood, and thence away to fresh masses of forest. Herds75 of red-deer rose from the fern, and went bounding away, and dashed into the depths of the woods; troops of those grey and long-tailed forest horses turned to gaze as I passed down the open glades; and the red squirrels in hundreds, scampered76 up from the ground where they were feeding on fallen mast and the kernels77 of pine-cones, and stamped and chattered78 on the boughs79 above me.
A lady who till recently lived on the skirts of the forest, and who moreover has walked through the spirit-land with power, and is known and honoured by all true lovers of pathos80 and imagination, had solemnly warned me not to attempt to pass through the larger woods without a guide; but what guide, except such as herself, or as the venerable William Gilpin would have been, could one have that we should not wish away ten times in a minute? If we must be lost, why, so let it be,—but let us be lost in the freedom of one’s own thoughts and feelings. Delighted with the true woodland wildness and solemnity of beauty, I roved onward through the widest woods that came in my way, and once, indeed, I imagined that a guide would really have been agreeable. Awaking as from a dream, I saw far around me one deep shadow, one thick and continuous roof of boughs, and thousands of hoary boles standing clothed, as it were, with the very spirit of silence. A[371] track in the wood seemed to lead in the direction I aimed at; but having gone on for an hour, here admiring the magnificent sweep of some grand old trees as they hung into a glade22 or a ravine, some delicious opening in the deep woods, or the grotesque81 figures of particular trees which seemed to have been blasted into blackness, and contorted into inimitable crookedness82 by the savage83 genius of the place,—I found myself again before one of those very remarkable84 trees which I had passed long before. It was too singular to be mistaken, and I paused to hold a serious council with myself. As I stood, I became more than ever sensible of the tomb-like silence in which I was. There was not the slightest sound of running water, whispering leaf, or the voice of any creature; the beating of my own heart, the ticking of my watch, were alone heard. It was that deep stillness which has been felt there by others.
The watchmen from the castle top
It was so calm and still;
And catch, by fits, the distant moan
Of King-garn’s little rill.
The Red King.
Whichever way I looked the forest stretched in one dense87 twilight88. It was the very realization89 of that appalling90 hush and bewildering continuity of shade so often described by travellers in the American woods. I had lost now all sense of any particular direction, and the only chance of reaching the outside of the wood was to go as much as possible in one direct line. Away then I went—but soon found myself entangled91 in the thickest underwood—actually overhead in rank weeds; now on the verge92 of an impassable bog93, and now on that of a deep ravine. Fortunately for me, the summer had been remarkably94 dry, and the ravines were dry too,—I could descend9 into them, and climb out on the other side. But the more I struggled on, the more I became confounded. Pausing to consider my situation, I saw a hairy face and a large pair of eyes fixed95 on me. Had it been a satyr, I felt that I should not have been surprised, it seemed so satyr-like a place. It was only a stag—which, with its head just above the tall fern, and its antlers amongst the boughs, looked very much[372] like Kühleborn of the Undine story. As I moved towards him he dashed away through the jungle, for so only could it be called, and I could long hear the crash of his progress. Ever and anon, huge swine with a fierce guffaw96 rushed from their lairs—one might have imagined them the wild boars of a German forest. At length I caught the tinkle98 of a cow-bell—a cheerful sound, for it must be in some open part of the forest, and from its distinctness not far distant. Thitherward I turned, and soon emerged into a sort of island in the sea of woods, a farm, like an American clearing. I sate99 down on a fallen tree to cool and rest myself, and was struck with the beauty of the place. These green fields lying so peacefully amid the woods, which, in one place pushed forward their scattered100 trees, in another retreated; here sprinkling them out thinly on the common, and there hanging their masses of dark foliage101 over a low-thatched hut or two. The quiet farm-house too, surrounded by its belt of tall hollies; the flocks of geese dispersed102 over the short turf, and the cows coming home out of the forest to be milked: it was a most peaceful picture, and unlike all that citizens are accustomed to contemplate103, except in Spenser or the German writers. These cow-bells too, have something in their sound so quaint104 and woodland. They are slung105 by a leathern strap106 from the neck of the leader, having neither sound nor shape of a common bell, but are like a tin canister, with a ring at the bottom to suspend them by. They seem like the first rudimental attempt at a bell, and have a sound dull and horny, rather than clear and ringing. The leaders of these herds are said to have a singular sagacity in tracking the woods, and finding their way to particular spots and home again, by extraordinary and intricate ways.
Having now a clear conception of my position, I proceeded leisurely107 towards Stony-Cross, the reputed place of the catastrophe108 of Rufus. The tree whence the fatal arrow glanced, or, at least, the one marked by popular tradition as it, was standing till about a century ago, when a triangular109 stone was set down to identify the spot; with these inscriptions110, one on each side:
1. Here stood the oak, on which an arrow, shot by Sir Walter Tyrrell at a stag, glanced and struck King William the Second, surnamed Rufus, in the breast, of which he instantly died, on the second of August, A.D. 1100.
[373]
2. King William the Second, surnamed Rufus, being slain111, as is before related, was laid in a cart belonging to one Purkess, and drawn112 from hence to Winchester, and was buried in the cathedral church of that city.
3. A.D. 1745: That the place where an event so memorable113 had happened, might not be hereafter unknown, this stone was set up by John Lord Delawar, who has seen the tree growing in this place.
This place is called in Doomsday Book, Truham, by Leland, Thorougham, by other writers, Choringham, and Chuham. It is now known by the name of Stony-Cross. Leland says that, in his time (the reign114 of Henry VIII.) a chapel2 was standing near the place, most probably built by some of King William’s descendants, to pray for his soul; it being the general opinion of the time, that the divine judgment115 for his cruelties in the forest had fallen upon him here more expressly, because here he had actually destroyed a church. No trace of such a thing is now visible, and indeed, it is one of the singularities of this spot, that so little vestige116 of the destroyed villages, churches, etc. is to be discovered.
Great numbers of people visit Stony-Cross in the summer. Large parties come out from Southampton, Winchester, and the neighbouring towns, and pic-nic under the trees that are scattered about; and a pleasanter place for a summer day’s excursion cannot be well imagined. There is a great charm in visiting a spot marked by a singular historical event 700 years ago, and finding it so similar in all its present features.
It lies on a wide slope amongst the woods. From the Ringwood road above, splendid views over the country present themselves; not far off is a capital inn, and below are a few scattered cottages, standing amid their orchards117, a picture of forest simplicity and peace. When I was there, the trees hung with loads of fruit, yet the little wooden houses stood, some of them empty and unprotected; their inhabitants, I suppose, being out working in the woods. I sate on the trunk of a fallen tree, and contemplated118 them with a feeling of delight. Supposing that it might be in one of them that the descendants of the Purkess who conveyed the king’s body to Winchester, lived, I went to the only one where there appeared anybody at home, to inquire, and learned that Purkess had lived at Minstead, a mile off. This village is said to[374] have received its name from the exclamation119 of Rufus, when the arrow struck him;—“O myne stede!” Yet he is said to have died instantly: if, therefore, this were the spot of his death, how came Minstead by the name? But the house of Purkess was at Minstead; and the man also is said to have lived near, in a small hut, and maintained his family by burning charcoal. Possibly the difficulty may be explained by what is very likely, that Purkess might be working in the wood at the time of the accident, and conveyed the body to his house before he conveyed it thence to Winchester in his cart. The name of Purkess is not mentioned by any historian, but the fact of the body being so conveyed is, and constant tradition says that Purkess was the man, and that he received as a reward the grant of an acre or two round his hut. His male descendants have continued to occupy the same house, and carry on the same trade from that time till very recently. The last of the lineal occupiers of the hut died an old man a few years ago; his daughter had married away, and his son, having learned some other trade, had gone to Southampton to practise it; so that here a singular residence of 700 years ends. The family is said to be the most ancient in the county. It was said that a piece of the wheel of the cart on which the body was conveyed, had always been preserved in the hut. When I asked if this were true, “Yes,” said the cottager, “the old man had a curious old piece of wood that he used to shew, and when the parties were gone, he used to laugh and say, ‘it did very well for the gentlemen.’” Alas120! for the honour of all relics121 that are too shrewdly inquired into!
Mrs. Southey, on reading the former edition, wrote me the following interesting particulars of the Purkess family. “Many of the race and name are still living in and about Minstead. The old cottage of the Purkess who ‘found the monarch’s corse,’ stood close to an estate of my father’s, now in possession of the Buckleys, where some of my childish years were spent. A damsel of the family,—Lydia Purkess, a true forest damsel, who had three or four colts for her portion, and used to break them in herself without saddle or bridle122, other than a rope,—was a great ally of mine, wee thing that I was, bringing me whortle-berries, and service-berries, and dormice, and all sorts of things, to our trysting-place in the holly[375] hedge that divided our domains123. The same damsel, when a little broken in herself, became in after years our servant, and lived here many years, till she married. She came to visit me the other day, and I made her vivify my recollection about the old cottage and the cart wheel. The forester you questioned on the subject was an envious124 churl125. The cottage was pulled down when falling, about five years ago. The part of the wheel did exist (who dares question our forest creed126?) in the possession of the same Purkesses till the death of my Lydia’s grandfather, and what became of it then she cannot tell. When George III. came last into Hampshire, taking up his abode127 at Cuffnell, near Minstead, he sent for the heir of the Purkesses and their heirloom, the wheel, but it was with ‘the things which have been and are no more.’ I have preserved a sketch128 of the old cottage; without doubt, I should think, one of the most ancient, if not the most, in the forest. The reed-pen drawing I send you is a fac-simile of that sketch.”
Purkiss's cottage, New Forest
And still—so runs our forest creed,
Ev’n in the self-same spot:
One horse and cart their little store,
Like their forefathers130; neither more
Nor less, the children’s lot.—The Red King.
Much interesting information respecting this fine old forest is to be found in “Gilpin’s Forest Scenery.” The Rev37. William Gilpin lived at Boldre, in a sweet old parsonage, in a fine situation, facing noble woods. He built and endowed a school-house there, out of the profits of the sale of his drawings, and lies buried in that churchyard. I visited his tomb with Mrs. Southey, who lived[376] near, and who, like all poetical131 people who live near one, has an attachment132 to the forest as enthusiastic as that of her venerable friend Gilpin himself.
Gilpin supposes that the peculiar breed of wild horses with which this forest abounds133, are a race descended134 from the Spanish jennets, driven ashore135 on the coast of Hampshire in the dispersion of the Invincible136 Armada. Great numbers of these are annually137 taken and sold. They are useful for any kind of employment, and are remarkable for being sure-footed. The colts are either hunted down by horsemen, or caught by stratagem138. He gives also a curious account of herding139 the hogs140 in this forest, which has been so frequently quoted that most readers must be familiar with it.
There is a numerous population within the limits of this forest; having got a habitation there by one means or another. On the skirts of the forest, and round its vast heaths, are numbers of poor huts, whose inmates141 have very little visible means of existence, but profess142 themselves to be woodmen, charcoal-burners, and so on; but it is pretty well understood that poaching and smuggling143 are their more probable vocations144. Some of their cabins are the rudest erections of boughs, turf, and heather. Their poles for charcoal-burning are reared in huge pyramids, with the smaller ends uppermost; and they tell a story in the forest, of a popular physician who was sent for on some urgent occasion, and coming to a certain place was met by a party of men, who told him he must submit to be blindfolded145. He did not feel in a condition to resist, and therefore acquiesced146 in the proposal with an apparent good will, though inly not so well pleased with the adventure. He continued to see sufficiently147 to discover that they took him down a wild and dismal148 glen. It was evening; and the light of the charcoal fires was seen glimmering149 here and there. They came to a huge pile of poles, which the men partly removed, and led him through a sort of labyrinthine150 passage within them, where his bandage was removed, and he found his patient lying in the midst of a hut, which furnished plenty of evidence that it was not merely the retreat, but the dep?t of smugglers. Without, however, seeming to notice anything but his patient, he prescribed, received his fee, was again bandaged, and reconducted to the spot where he had been met, and wished a very good night.
[377]
“Foresters and Borderers,” says John Evelyn, “are not generally so civil and reasonable as might be wished.” And that seems to be exactly the character of those in the New Forest. Many of them, like those in the woods of America, are mere151 squatters, but the attempt to disturb them is much the same as to disturb a hornets’ nest. Conscious that there is no strength but in making common cause, they are all up in arms at any attempt to dislodge any of them. A few years ago, I read in the newspapers of an attempt of the farmers to remove some of these suspicious neighbours to a greater distance, which brought out such a host of hostile foresters against them, threatening to burn their houses over their heads, as compelled them to send for the military. This is just in keeping with the character given of them in the neighbourhood. They are a fine race of men, say they, but many of them desperate. In severe winters the distress152 and destitution153 of these wild people have sometimes been found to be beyond description, both in intensity154 and extent.
In this forest are nine walks, and to each a keeper. It has also two rangers155, a bowbearer, and landwarden. There is also an officer of modern date in the constitution of a forest, the purveyor157, appointed by the commissioners158 of the dockyards at Plymouth, whose business is to assign timber for the use of the navy. There are also various inferior officers, as vermin killers159, etc. Many of these offices are now merely sinecures160, and are held by gentlemen who rarely see the forest; the greater part of their concern with it being to receive their salaries, and the number of fat bucks161 belonging by prescription162 to the office. The lodges were handsome buildings, fit for the residence of any gentleman, and were mostly so occupied. The one at Lyndhurst, called “The King’s House,” where George III. used to take up his residence during his hunting expeditions, is a substantial brick building close to the road. In it is preserved one of the stirrups of Rufus.
And still, in merry Lyndhurst hall,
Red William’s stirrup decks the wall;
Who lists, the sight may see;
And a fair stone, in green Malwood,
Informs the traveller where stood
The memorable tree.
[378]
In a note to this stanza163 of “The Red King,” a poem on the death of Rufus, by William Stewart Rose, bowbearer of the New Forest, and therefore, as he himself tells us, successor to Sir Walter Tyrrell, Mr. Rose says—“the stirrup, suspended among smoked escutcheons of the royal arms, and stags’ antlers, makes a good addition to the forest ornaments of the hall of judicature. The justice-seat and bar are of ancient and massive oak; an enormous bacon-rack of the same age and materials, surmounts164 the whole. The green habits of the judge and officers assort well with the rest; and it is impossible to see a court held under this sylvan165 pomp and circumstance—to view the mixed and oddly accoutred rabble166 of people attached—to hear their defences, founded on some wild notions of natural law, delivered in an uncouth167 jargon168, still considerably169 dashed with Anglo-Saxon—to observe the sang-froid with which they hear the decision of their judges, and, not least, to observe the prompt dispatch of justice—it is impossible, I say, to witness such a scene (as a spectator once observed to me), without being transported in imagination back to the fourteenth century.”
With the exception of this and Lady-Cross Lodge72, all the forest lodges now standing are those appropriated to the use of the under-keepers. Those appropriated to the principal keeper were all pulled down on the decease of the last royal Lord Warden156, H. R. H. the Duke of Gloucester. Boldrewood was the last that fell, on the death of the Dowager Lady Londonderry, to whom it was lent by her son, the present Marquess.
The fall of these fine old lodges reminds us of one feature which this forest and its neighbourhood possessed170 in Catholic times, and which it has never lost, the glorious old abbeys. We have already spoken of Beaulieu, but never of Netley and of Binstead in the Isle171 of Wight opposite, so beautifully alluded172 to by Mr. Moile in his most extraordinary poems. The State Trials, which few people are acquainted with, but all lovers of poetry ought to know, must have also conferred something of their own character.
“In Netley Abbey,—on the neighbouring isle,
The woods of Binstead shade as fair a pile;—
Where sloping meadows fringe the shores with green,
A river of the ocean rolls between,
Through oriel windows, and a cloistered175 court;[379]
O’er hills so fair, o’er terraces so sweet,
The sea comes twice each day to kiss their feet;—
And lowing herds and feathered warblers there
Where, after chimes, each chapel echoes round
Like one aerial instrument of sound,
The Commissioners of Woods and Forests have made extensive plantations187 in various parts of the forest, which appear in a thriving condition, and are belted with a variety of pines—Scotch, silver fir, Weymouth pine, pinasters, etc., whose contrasted foliage makes a rich appearance.
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1
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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2
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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4
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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morasses
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| n.缠作一团( morass的名词复数 )；困境；沼泽；陷阱 | |
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thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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8
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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9
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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10
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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12
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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13
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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fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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17
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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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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19
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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20
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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21
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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22
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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24
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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25
hollies
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| n.冬青（常绿灌木，叶尖而硬，有光泽，冬季结红色浆果）( holly的名词复数 )；（用作圣诞节饰物的）冬青树枝 | |
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26
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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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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28
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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29
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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30
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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31
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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32
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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33
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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34
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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35
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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36
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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37
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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38
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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39
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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40
scathed
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| v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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42
monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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43
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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44
mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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45
ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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46
knolls
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| n.小圆丘，小土墩( knoll的名词复数 ) | |
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47
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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48
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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49
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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50
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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51
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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52
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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53
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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54
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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55
verandas
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| 阳台，走廊( veranda的名词复数 ) | |
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56
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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57
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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58
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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59
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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60
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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61
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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62
scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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63
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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64
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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65
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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66
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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67
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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68
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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69
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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71
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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72
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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73
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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74
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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75
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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76
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
kernels
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| 谷粒( kernel的名词复数 )； 仁； 核； 要点 | |
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78
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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79
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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80
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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81
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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82
crookedness
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| [医]弯曲 | |
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83
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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84
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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85
acorn
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| n.橡实，橡子 | |
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86
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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87
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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88
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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89
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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90
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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91
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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93
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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94
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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95
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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96
guffaw
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| n.哄笑；突然的大笑 | |
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97
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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98
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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99
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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100
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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101
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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102
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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103
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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104
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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105
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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106
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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107
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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108
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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109
triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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110
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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111
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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112
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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113
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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114
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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115
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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116
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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117
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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118
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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119
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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120
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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121
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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122
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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123
domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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124
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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125
churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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126
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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127
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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128
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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129
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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130
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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131
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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132
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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133
abounds
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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134
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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135
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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136
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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137
annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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138
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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139
herding
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| 中畜群 | |
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140
hogs
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| n.（尤指喂肥供食用的）猪( hog的名词复数 )；（供食用的）阉公猪；彻底地做某事；自私的或贪婪的人 | |
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141
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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142
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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143
smuggling
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| n.走私 | |
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144
vocations
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| n.（认为特别适合自己的）职业( vocation的名词复数 )；使命；神召；（认为某种工作或生活方式特别适合自己的）信心 | |
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145
blindfolded
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| v.（尤指用布）挡住（某人）的视线( blindfold的过去式 )；蒙住（某人）的眼睛；使不理解；蒙骗 | |
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146
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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148
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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149
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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150
labyrinthine
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| adj.如迷宫的；复杂的 | |
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151
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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152
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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153
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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154
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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155
rangers
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| 护林者( ranger的名词复数 )； 突击队员 | |
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156
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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157
purveyor
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| n.承办商，伙食承办商 | |
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158
commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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159
killers
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| 凶手( killer的名词复数 )； 消灭…者； 致命物； 极难的事 | |
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160
sinecures
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| n.工作清闲但报酬优厚的职位，挂名的好差事( sinecure的名词复数 ) | |
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161
bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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162
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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163
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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164
surmounts
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| 战胜( surmount的第三人称单数 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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165
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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166
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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167
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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168
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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169
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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170
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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171
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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172
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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174
disport
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| v.嬉戏，玩 | |
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175
cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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177
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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178
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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179
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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180
exhales
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的第三人称单数 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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181
concords
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| n.和谐，一致，和睦( concord的名词复数 ) | |
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182
apiaries
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| n.养蜂场，蜂房( apiary的名词复数 ) | |
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183
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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184
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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185
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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186
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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187
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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