What a mighty1 space lies between the palace and the cottage in this country! ay, what a mighty space between the mansion2 of the private gentleman and the hut of the labourer on his estate! To enter the one: to see its stateliness and extent; all its offices, outbuildings, gardens, greenhouses, hothouses; its extensive fruit-walls, and the people labouring to furnish the table simply with fruit, vegetables, and flowers; its coach-houses, harness-houses, stables, and all the steeds, draught-horses, and saddle-horses, hunters, and ladies’ pads, ponies4 for ladies’ airing-carriages, and ponies for children; and all the grooms5 and attendants thereon; to see the waters for fish, the woods for game, the elegant dairy for the supply of milk and cream, curds6 and butter, and the dairymaids and managers belonging to them;—and then, to enter the house itself, and see all its different suites7 of apartments, drawing-rooms, boudoirs, sleeping-rooms, dining and breakfast rooms; its steward8’s, housekeeper’s and butler’s rooms; its ample kitchens and larders9, with their stores of provisions, fresh and dried; its[403] stores of costly10 plate, porcelain11 and crockery apparatus12 of a hundred kinds; its cellars of wine and strong beer; its stores of linen13; its library of books; its collections of paintings, engravings, and statuary; the jewels, musical instruments, and expensive and interminable nick-knackery of the ladies; the guns and dogs; the cross-bows, long-bows, nets, and other implements14 of amusement of the gentlemen; all the rich carpeting and fittings-up of day-rooms, and night-rooms, with every contrivance and luxury which a most ingenious and luxurious15 age can furnish; and all the troops of servants, male and female, having their own exclusive offices, to wait upon the person of lady or gentleman, upon table, or carriage, or upon some one ministration of pleasure or necessity: I say, to see all this, and then to enter the cottage of a labourer, we must certainly think that one has too much for the insurance of comfort, or the other must have extremely too little. If the peasant can be satisfied with his establishment, and the gentleman could not tell how to live without his, one would be almost persuaded that they could not be of the same class of animals. Knowing, however, that they are of the same species, it only shews of what elastic16 stuff human nature is made; into what a nutshell it can compress its cravings, and how immensely it can expand itself when the pressure of necessity is withdrawn17. I am not going here to moot19 the old question of whereabout happiness lies in this strange disparity of circumstance; it, no doubt, lies somewhere between the extremes. It certainly cannot be created by external superfluities. They lay open their possessors to the exercise of despotic power; to the corruptions20 of pride and luxury; to false taste, frivolous21 pursuits, and the diffusion22 of the attention over so many objects as to prevent the heart from settling firmly on any. They have a tendency to weaken the domestic attachments23, and the love of solid pursuits. On the other hand, the pressure of poverty and ignorance certainly can, and too often does, lie so heavily as to destroy the relish24 of life’s enjoyments26 in the cottager. Yet happiness is a fireside thing; and the simplicity27 of cottage life, the fewness of its objects, and the strong sympathies awakened28 by its trials and sufferings, tend to condense the affections, and to strike deep the roots of happiness in the sacred soil of consanguinity30. When wealth is accompanied by a desire to do good, it is a glorious and a happy destiny; when lowly life is virtuous,[404] easy, and enlightened, it is a happy destiny too—for it is full of the strong zest31 of existence, and strong affections. But this is not my present subject.
When we go into the cottage of the working man, how forcibly are we struck with the difference between his mode of life and our own. There is his tenement32 of, at most, one or two rooms. His naked walls; bare brick, stone or mud floor, as it may be: a few wooden, or rush-bottomed chairs; a deal, or old oak table; a simple fireplace, with its oven beside it, or, in many parts of the kingdom, no other fireplace than the hearth33; a few pots and pans—and you have his whole abode34, goods and chattels35. He comes home weary from his out-door work, having eaten his dinner under hedge or tree, and seats himself for a few hours with his wife and children, then turns into a rude bed, standing36 perhaps on the farther side of his only room, and out again before daylight, if it be winter. He has no one to make a fire in his dressing-room, to lay out his clothes, to assist him in his toilet; he flings on his patched garments, washes his face in a wooden or earthen dish at the door; blows up the fire, often gets ready his own breakfast, and is gone.
Such is the routine of his life, from week to week and year to year; Sundays, and a few holidays, are white days in his calendar. On them he shaves, and puts on a clean shirt and better coat, drawn18 from that old chest which contains the whole wardrobe of himself and children; his wife has generally some separate drawer or bandbox, in which to stow her lighter37 and more fragile gear. Then he walks round his little garden, if he have it; goes with his wife and children to church or meeting; to sit with a neighbour, or have a neighbour look in upon him. There he sits, his children upon his knee, and tells them how his father used to talk to him.
This is cottage life in its best estate; in its unsophisticated and unpauperised condition. He has no carriages, no horses, no cards of invitation, or of admittance to places of amusement; none of the luxuries, fascinations38, or embellishments of life belong to him. It is existence shorn of all its spreading and flowering branches, but not pared to the quick. This is supposing the father of the family is sober and industrious39;—that he is[405] neither a pot-house haunter, a gambler at the cockpit, a boxer40, a dog-fighter, a poacher, an idle, rackety and demoralized fellow, as thousands are. This is supposing that he brings home his week’s wages, and puts them into the hands of his wife, as their best guardian41 and distributer;—saying,—“Here, my lass, this is all that I have earned; thou must lay it out for the best; I have enough to do to win it.”
And what are these wages, out of which to maintain his family, aided by the lesser42 earnings43 of his wife, by taking in washing, helping44 in harvest-fields, charring in more affluent45 people’s houses, and so on, and the earnings of the children in similar ways, or in some neighbouring factory? His own probably amount to nine, or, at most, twelve shillings, and if his family be large, and there are several workers among them, the whole united earnings may reach twenty shillings per week; a sum which will hardly find other men wherewith to pay toll-bars, or purchase gunpowder46; a sum which we throw away repeatedly on some bauble47; and yet, on this will a whole family maintain life and credit for a week, ay, and on much less too. In this little hut, which we should hardly think would do for a cowshed or a hayloft, and to which the stables of many gentlemen are real palaces, is the poor man packed with all his kindred lives, interests, and affections: and so he carries on the warfare48 of humanity, till He, who is no respecter of persons, calls him to stand, side by side, before his throne with the rich man who “has fared sumptuously49 every day.”
Such are “the short and simple annals” of thousands and tens of thousands in these kingdoms; and yet what fine strapping50 young fellows spring up in these little cabins, men who have tilled the soil of England and wielded51 at home her mechanic tools, and borne her arms abroad, till their industry and genius, under the direction of higher minds, have raised her to her present pitch of eminence52; and what sweet faces and lovely forms issue thence to Sunday worship, to village feast and dance; or are seen by the evening passer-by in the light of the ingle, amid the family group, making some smoky-raftered hut a little temple of rare beauty, and of filial or sisterly affections. I often thank God that the poor have their objects of admiration53 and attraction; their domestic affections and their family ties, out of which spring a thousand[406] simple and substantial pleasures; that beauty and ability are not the exclusive growth of hall and palace; and that, in this country at least, the hand of arbitrary power dare seldom enter this charmed circle, and tear asunder54 husband from wife, parent from children, brother from sister, as it does in the lands of slavery. Yet our New Poor Laws have aimed a deadly blow at this blessed security; and, till the sound feeling of the nation shall have again disarmed55 them of this fearful authority, every poor man’s family is liable, on the occurrence of some chance stroke of destitution56, to have to their misfortune, bitter enough in itself, added the tenfold aggravation57 of being torn asunder, and immured58 in the separate wards59 of a Poverty Prison. The very supposition is horrible; and, if this system, this iron and indiscriminating system,—a blind tyranny, knowing no difference between accidental misfortune and habitual60 idleness, between worthy61 poverty and audacious imposition, between misfortune and crime,—be the product of Philanthropy, may Philanthropy be sunk to the bottom of the sea!
But the cottage life I have been speaking of, is that of the better class of cottagers; the sober and industrious peasantry: but how far short of this condition is that of millions in this empire! To say nothing of Irish cabins, the examples of what a state of destitution, misery62, and squalor men may sink into; how much below this is the comfort of a Highland63 hut? What a contrast is there often between the cottage of an English labourer, and the steading of a Highland farmer. There it stands, in a deep glen, between high, rocky mountains. His farm is a wild sheep-track among the hills. Wheat, he grows none, for it is too cold and weeping a climate. He has a little patch of oats for crowdie and oatcake; potatoes he has, if the torrent64 has not risen during sudden rains so high in the glen as to sweep his crop away. He has contrived65 a little stock of hay for his cows, but where it can have grown you cannot conceive, till some day, as you see a woman or a boy herding66 the cattle amongst the patches of cultivation—for there are no fences between the grass and arable67 land—you find one or the other cutting the longer grass from the boggy68 waste with a sickle69, and drying it often in little sheaves as our farmers dry corn. But the house itself;—it is a little, low, long building of mud, or rough stones; the chimney composed of four short poles[407] wrapped round with hay-bands; a flat stone laid upon it to prevent the smoke being driven down into the hut by the tempestuous70 winds from the hills; and another stone laid upon that, to keep it from being blown away. The roof is thatched with bracken, with the roots outermost71; or often the same roof is a patchwork72 of bracken, ling, broom, and turf. A little window of perhaps one pane73 of thick glass, or of four of oiled paper. The door, which reaches to the eaves, is so low that you must stoop to enter; and the smoke is pouring out of it faster than it ascends74 from the chimney. A few goats are, most likely, lying or standing about the door. You enter, and as soon as you can discern anything through the eternal cloud of smoke, you most probably find yourself in a crowd. The fire of peat lies in the centre of the hut, surrounded by a few stones; wooden benches are nailed on one side against the wall, and the other is partitioned off like a large wooden cupboard, with sliding doors or curtains, for the family bed, as you find all over Scotland, and even in Northumberland. The pigs are running about the floor; hens are roosting over your head; the cows are lowing in, what we should call, the parlour; nine or ten children, or weans, as they call them, and a callant, or boy, who teaches the weans, and the father and mother, and very probably their father and mother, or one of them, in extreme age, are fixing their eyes on the stranger.
In the summer of 1836, Mrs. Howitt and myself passed the night in such a dwelling75, and a slight notice of the place may present, to many of our readers, a new view of cottage life. It was in Rosshire, some thirty or forty miles north-west of Inverness, at a spot called the Comrie, lying between Loch Echilty and Loch Luichart. A wild, and yet most beautiful spot it was,—a little strath opening itself out between the wooded mountains which surround Loch Echilty, and the bare stony76 hills in the direction of Strath Conan. We came upon it after wandering through the delicious fairyland of birch woods that clothe that Loch in the very romance of picturesque77 beauty, springing up amongst the wildest chaos78 of crags, here hanging over the water, and here surrounding the ruinous blackness of some solitary79 hut, that, but for children playing before it, would appear to have been tenantless80 for years. A stern defile81 guarded by vast masses of projecting rocks, by places[408] clothed with the richest drapery of crimson82 heather, by places naked and lividly grey, and height above height still scattered83 with climbing birch trees, brought us to a little nameless loch hidden in the woods, girt with a dense29 margin84 of reeds, and covered with the most magnificent display of white water-lilies, and then appeared two of those little huts in this Highland solitude85. The evening was rapidly sinking into night, and we were uncertain how far it was to the next inn. Two women appeared at the door of one of the huts, and rather startled us with the information, that the nearest inn in the way we proposed to go, was distant five-and-twenty miles! That another mile brought us to the ferry over the Conan, where the carriage-road ceased, and all beyond was mountain and moorland waste. We seemed, as it were, to be on the very verge86 of civilization; and there appeared to be nothing for us but to retrace87 our way for some miles, or to take up our lodging88 in this house.
Weary as we were, this appeared the less objectionable alternative, and we accepted the offer which the elder woman made us. The moment we did so, the poor woman seemed struck with the rashness of her act. “What shall I do for the like of you? What shall I find for the like of you?” We assured her we should not be very fastidious guests, and in we went. It was such a hut as I have just described. The fire lay on a hearth of stones, with a few large stones built up against the mud wall to prevent the house from being burnt. The woman’s husband, a farmer, was gone into Morayshire with lambs; a hired shepherd sat on the side of the partitioned bed, such as I have already described; two fine sheep-dogs lay before the fire, and a troop of barelegged and kilted boys came running in from some distant school. They were Macgregors, having come hither from Dumbartonshire, and could, fortunately for us, speak English. We sate89 on a bench in the ingle, and all these little Macgregors, Grigor Macgregor, Peter and Duncan, and the rest, squatted90 on the mud-floor, and alternately watched us and their eldest91 sister, a fine barelegged lassie of eighteen, who was busy baking oatcakes for us. It was a hot post both for herself and for us. She put on peats till the hut was like an oven, and the smoke made our eyes smart almost past endurance. Yet we watched the progress of her operation with great interest,[409] as she made a paste of oatmeal and water, rolled it out in cakes, cut it into segments, baked them on an iron girdle over the fire, and then reared them before the glowing peats to make them crisp. This done, she found us some tea, and that was our supper. They had two or three cows, but their milk was already in the process of being converted into cheese; the potatoes and the oats of the last crop were exhausted92, and the wet season had prevented the ripening93 of the present. “There was,” said our hostess, “a great cry in the country for food!” Our fatigue94, and this announcement, induced us to think we fared well. They made us a comfortable bed in the spence, where we found four Gaelic Bibles, and the History of Robinson Crusoe! Early in the morning we pursued our way; but ere we took our leave, the poor woman came in from fetching up her cows, her clothes wet to the very knees. When we expressed our surprise—“O,” said she, “that is what we are used to every day of our lives. While you have been in your bed, the herdboy has three times gone round the corn-fields with his dogs, to chase away the stags and roes96 into the woods. The last thing every night, while the corn is growing in the field, he goes round—once again at midnight, and then at the earliest dawn of day. Every night it must be done, or a green blade would not be left. If you went in the gloaming with the man into the wood, sir, you would see twenty stags as big as our cows. O it’s an awful place for wild beasts—foxes and badgers97, and serpents! did you ever see a serpent, ma’am? Sometimes in a morning they rear themselves up in a narrow path, and hiss98 at me bitterly.” As the poor woman spoke99, we stood at the door of her little tenement, and saw the heavy dew lie glittering on the grass all round; and the primitive100 cheese-press, consisting of a pole, one end of which was thrust into a crevice101 of a rock, and the other weighted with a huge stone; and around us were the heathy mountains and the woods; the mists and clouds clinging to the sides of wild hills, or rolling away before the breeze of morning; and the sound of the neighbouring torrent alone disturbing the deep solitude. We could not avoid feeling how far was all this from the cottage-life of England. We gave the poor woman what we thought a fitting return for her hospitality, and left her overwhelmed with a grateful astonishment102, which shewed what was there the real value of money.
[410]
This is a scene in the scale of comfort far below the general run of labourers’ houses in England; but yet how far, infinitely103 far lower, do many of our working people’s abodes104 sink. What dens3 have we in manufacturing towns! What little, filthy105, dismal106, yet high-rented dens! What cabins do some of our colliers and miners inhabit! What noisome107, amphibious abodes abound108 in our fishing villages, such as Crabbe has painted! What places have I seen in different parts of England, which everywhere obtain the name of Rookeries,—huge piles built for some purpose which has not answered; or some deserted109 hall, let off in little tenements110; the windows broken, and stopped with old rags and hats; the ground all round trodden down, covered with ash-heaps; a few stunted111 bushes, or gooseberry trees, where once had been a garden, displaying the ragged112 and tattered113 wash of the indigence114 of indigence: altogether exhibiting such an air of poverty as impoverishes115 one’s very spirit, and fills it with a nameless feeling of disgust and despondence for days after. Such a place I particularly recollect116 seeing somewhere between Netherby and Gretna-Green; and, observing an old man “daundering about,” as he called it, as without hope and object, I asked him how this place came to look so forlorn—“O,” said he, “we once could run our cows on the waste, and did very well, but that is taken away. Sir James asked the steward what the poor people must do, ‘O, they will all hooly[25] away,’ said he; but where are we to hooly to?”
[25] Slip quietly away. A word often found in the old Border Ballads117, as “Then hooly, hooly up she rose,” etc.
Ah! cottage life! There is much more hidden under that name than ever inspired the wish to build cottages ornées, or to inhabit them. There is a vast mass of human interests within its circle, of which the world takes little note. The loves and hopes; the trials and struggles; the sufferings, deaths, and burials; the festivities and religious confraternities; the indignities118 that fret119, and the necessities that compel, to action and union our simple brethren and sisters. How little is truly known; how much is consequently misjudged; how great is the indifference120 concerning them in those who have the power to work miracles of love and happiness amongst them, and must one day stand with them at the[411] footstool of our common Father, who will demand of his children how each has loved his brethren.
Let us turn our eyes, however, a moment from the dark side to the light one. There is not a more beautiful sight in the world than that of our English cottages, in those parts of the country where the violent changes of the times have not been so sensibly felt. Where manufactures have not introduced their red, staring, bald brick-houses, and what is worse, their beershops and demoralization: where, in fact, a more primitive simplicity remains121. There, on the edges of the forests, in quiet hamlets and sweet woody valleys, the little grey-thatched cottages, with their gardens and old orchards122, their rows of beehives, and their porches clustered with jasmines and roses, stand:—
Hundreds of huts
Some in deep dingles, secret as the nest
Of pine, on whose tall top the throstle sings.
Hundreds of huts, yet all apart, and felt
Far from each other; ’mid the multitude
By its own self a perfect solitude,
Hushed, but not mute.
John Wilson.
There they stand, and give one a poetical126 idea of peace and happiness which is inexpressible. Well may they be the admiration of foreigners. In many of the southern counties, but I think nowhere more than in Hampshire, do the cottages realize, in my view, every conception that our poets have given us of them. One does, no doubt, when looking on their quiet beauty, endow them with a repose127 and exemption128 from mortal sufferings that can belong to no human dwelling; and Professor Wilson, in his poem called “An Evening in Furness Abbey,” which appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine, September, 1829,—a poem flushed all over with the violet hues129 of poetry, and overflowing130 with tenderness and grace, gives one this very delightful131 expression of a thought which has occurred to many of us—
The day goes by
On which our soul’s beloved dies! The day[412]
On which the body of the dead is stretched
By hands that decked it when alive; the day
Of burial—one and all go by! The grave
Grows green ere long; the churchyard seems a place
Of pleasant rest, and all the cottages,
That keep for ever sending funerals
Within its gates, look cheerful every one,
But sobering down by such sad, yet sweet thoughts as these, our poetical fancies of cottage life, and bringing them within the range of human trouble and suffering, still these rustic135 abodes must inspire us with ideas of a peace and purity of life, in most soothing136 contrast with the hurry and immorality137 of cities. Blessings138 be on them wherever they stand, in woodland valleys, or on open heaths, throughout fair England; and may growing knowledge bring growth of happiness, widening the capacity of enjoyment25 without touching139 the simplicity of feeling and the strength of principle. Well may the weary wayfarer—
O! that for me some home like this would smile;
Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm.
There are thousands of them inhabited by woodmen, labourers, or keepers, that are fit dwellings142 for the truest poet that ever lived; and it is the ideal of these picturesque and peace-breathing English cottages that has given origin to some of the sweetest paradises in the world—the cottages of the wealthy and the tasteful. What most lovely creations of this description now abound in the finest parts of England, with their delicious shrubberies, velvet143 lawns, hidden walks, and rustic garden-huts; their little paddocks lying amid woods, and skirted with waters; spots breathing the odour of dewy flowers, and containing in small space all the elegance144 and the country enjoyments of life.
Happiness, it is true, is not to be dragged into such places; but what places they are for the genuine lover of the country to invite her into! The very feeling of the cumbrous pomp and circumstance of aristocratic establishments in this country, makes[413] one think of such sweet hermitages with a sense of relief and congratulation. What more charming abode has the wide earth for a spirit soothing itself with the pleasures of literature and the consolation145 of genuine religion, far from the wranglings pf political life, than such a one as the cottage, formerly146 that of Mrs. Southey, at Buckland, on the border of the New Forest; of Miss Mitford, at Three-Mile-Cross; or that of Wordsworth at Rydal? But we must quit these earthly paradises to speak of other things.
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1
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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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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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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curds
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| n.凝乳( curd的名词复数 ) | |
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suites
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| n.套( suite的名词复数 )；一套房间；一套家具；一套公寓 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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larders
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| n.（家中的）食物贮藏室，食物橱( larder的名词复数 ) | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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moot
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| v.提出；adj.未决议的；n.大会；辩论会 | |
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corruptions
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| n.堕落( corruption的名词复数 )；腐化；腐败；贿赂 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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diffusion
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| n.流布；普及；散漫 | |
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attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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consanguinity
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| n.血缘；亲族 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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32
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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33
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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34
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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35
chattels
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| n.动产，奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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36
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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37
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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38
fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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39
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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40
boxer
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| n.制箱者，拳击手 | |
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41
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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42
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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43
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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44
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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45
affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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46
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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47
bauble
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| n.美观而无价值的饰物 | |
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48
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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49
sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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50
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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51
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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52
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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53
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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54
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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55
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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56
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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57
aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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58
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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60
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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61
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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62
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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63
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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64
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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65
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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66
herding
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| 中畜群 | |
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67
arable
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| adj.可耕的，适合种植的 | |
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68
boggy
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| adj.沼泽多的 | |
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69
sickle
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| n.镰刀 | |
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70
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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71
outermost
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| adj.最外面的，远离中心的 | |
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72
patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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73
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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74
ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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75
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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76
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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77
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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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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79
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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80
tenantless
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| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
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81
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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82
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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83
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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84
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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85
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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86
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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87
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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88
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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89
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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90
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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91
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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92
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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93
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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94
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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95
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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96
roes
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| n.獐( roe的名词复数 )；獐鹿；鱼卵；鱼精液 | |
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97
badgers
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| n.獾( badger的名词复数 )；獾皮；（大写）獾州人（美国威斯康星州人的别称）；毛鼻袋熊 | |
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98
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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99
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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100
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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101
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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102
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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103
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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104
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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105
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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106
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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107
noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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108
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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109
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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110
tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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111
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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112
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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113
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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114
indigence
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| n.贫穷 | |
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115
impoverishes
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| v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的第三人称单数 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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116
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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117
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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118
indignities
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| n.侮辱，轻蔑( indignity的名词复数 ) | |
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119
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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120
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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121
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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122
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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123
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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124
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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125
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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126
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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127
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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128
exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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129
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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130
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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131
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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132
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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133
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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134
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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135
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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136
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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137
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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138
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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139
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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140
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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141
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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142
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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143
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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144
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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145
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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146
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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