There is nothing more characteristic in rural life than a village alehouse, or inn. It is the centre of information, and the regular, or occasional rendezvous1 of almost everybody in the neighbourhood. You there see all sorts of characters, or you hear of them. The whereabout of everybody all around is there perfectly3 understood. I do not mean the low pothouse—the new beer-shop of the new Beer-bill, with LICENSED4 TO BE DRUNK ON THE PREMISES5 blazoned6 over the door in staring characters—the Tom-and-Jerry of the midland counties—the Kidley-Wink of the west of England. No, I mean the good old-fashioned country alehouse; the substantial, well-to-do old country alehouse—situated7 on a village green, or by the road-side, with a comfortable sweep out of the road itself for carriages or carts to come round to the door, and stand out of all harm’s way. The nice old-fashioned house, in a quiet, rural,[481] out-of-the-way, old-fashioned district. The very house which Goldsmith in his day described—
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
It is a low, white-washed, or slap-dashed, or stuccoed, or timber-framed house, with its various roof, and steep gables; its casement11 windows above, bright and clean, peeping out from amongst vines or jasmines, where the innkeeper’s neat daughter, who acts the parts of chambermaid, barmaid, and waiter, may be seen looking abroad; and its ample bay-windows below, where parties may do the same, and where, as you pass, you may occasionally see such parties—a pleasant-looking family, or a group of young, gay people, with merry, and often very sweet faces amongst them;—their post-chaise, travelling-carriage, barouche, or spring-cart, according to their several styles and dignities, standing12 at the door, under the great spreading tree. Ay, there is the old spreading tree, that is as old, and probably older than the inn itself. It is an elm, with a knotty13 mass of root swelled14 out around the base of its sturdy stem into a prodigious15 heap—into a seat, in fact, on holiday occasions, for a score of rustic16 revellers, or resters. In some cases, where the root has not been so accommodating, a good stout17 bench runs round it; or where the root is at all endangered by scratching dogs, picking and hewing18 children, or rooting pigs of the village, it has heaped up a good mound19 of earth round it; or it is protected by a circle of wattled fence.
You see the tree is a tree of mark and consequence; it is, indeed, the tree. It is looked upon as part and parcel of the concern; of as much consequence to the house as its sign; and it is often the sign itself:—The Old Elm-Tree! Or it may be a yew20—the very yew out of which Robin21 Hood2 and Little John, Will Scarlett, or Will Stutely cut their bows—yes, that house is “The Robin Hood.” Or it may be a mighty22 ash—the One-Ash, or the Mony-Ash, as in the Peak of Derbyshire. Or it is an oak of as much dignity—The Royal-Oak. Or it is a whole grove23 or cluster, by character or tradition—The Seven-Sisters—or The Four-Brothers—or The Nine-Oaks—all of which sisters, brothers, or nine companions, except[482] one, are decayed, dropped off, or thrown down, as many a family beside has been. See!—the sign hangs in it, or is suspended on its post just by, bearing the likeness24 of the original tree, attempted by some village artist.
Just such a tree and such a house, all my Surrey, and many of my metropolitan25 readers are familiar with at the foot of St. Anne’s Hill, by Chertsey. The Golden-Grove, kept by James Snowden,—who does not know it, that loves sweet scenery, sweet associations, or a pleasant steak and pipe, or a tea-party on a holiday of nature, in one of the most delicious nests imaginable? Yes! there is a nice old village inn for you; and such a tree! There you have the picture of the Golden-Grove all in a blaze of gold—somewhat dashed and dimmed, it is true, by the blaze of many suns,—but there it is, in front of the inn, and by the old tree. The inn, the hanging gardens and orchards26, the rustic cottages scattered28 about, the rich woods and splendid prospects29 above, the beautiful meadows and winding30 streams below; why, they are enough to arrest any traveller, and make him put up his horse, and determine to breathe a little of this sweet air, and indulge in this Arcadian calm, amid these embowering woodlands. And where is he? Below, in those fair meadows, amid those cottage roofs and orchard27 trees, rises the low, square church-tower of Chertsey:—Chertsey, where Cowley lived and died; and where his garden still remains32, as delicious as ever, with its grassy33 walk winding by his favourite brook34, and the little wooden bridge leading into the richest meadows. And where his old house yet remains, saving the porch pointing to the street, which was taken down for the public safety, but the circumstance and its cause recorded on a tablet on the wall, with this concluding line—
Here the last accents flowed from Cowley’s tongue.
You then, poetical35 or enthusiastic traveller or visitant, tread the ground which Abraham Cowley trod in his retirement36; and what is more, you tread the ground which Charles James Fox trod in his retirement. The hill above is St. Anne’s,—conspicuous through a great part of Surrey, Berks, Bucks37, Herts, and Middlesex, delightful38 for its woods and for its splendid panoramic39 views, including the winding Thames, Cooper’s Hill, celebrated40 by Sir John Denham,[483] Hampstead, Highgate, Harrow, and mighty London itself, but still more delightful to the patriotic41 visitant, as the place where Fox retired to refresh himself after his parliamentary contests, and to recruit himself for fresh struggles for his country. It is a place which Rogers by his pen, and Turner by his pencil, have made still more sacred. Who does not know the lines of Rogers in his poem of Human Life, in his last splendidly-embellished edition of his works, referring to Fox?—
And now once more where most he wished to be,
In his own fields, breathing tranquillity—
We hail him—not less happy Fox, than thee!
Playful, sincere, and artless as a child!
Thee, who wouldst watch a bird’s nest on the spray,
Through the green leaves exploring, day by day.
How oft from grove to grove, from seat to seat,
With thee conversing43 in thy loved retreat,
I saw the sun go down!—Ah, then ’twas thine,
Ne’er to forget some volume half divine,
Shakspeare’s or Dryden’s—through the chequered shade
Borne in thy hand behind thee as we strayed;
To read there with a fervour all thine own,
And in thy grand and melancholy45 tone,
Some splendid passage, not to thee unknown,
One who resembles thee.
There is the place, drawn49 by Turner, exactly as it is; and there is still living the widow of the great statesman, at the advanced age of upwards50 of ninety years.
It must be confessed that the Golden-Grove is located in a very golden situation, and then—its tree! I suppose that is scarcely to be rivalled. I have placed on my title-page the King of Belgium’s tree, but James Snowden’s tree is every whit10 as remarkable51.
It is a grand old elm, with massy, wide-spreading horizontal branches, on which is laid a stout oaken floor, fenced in by a strong parapet of boards and palisades. It is an aerial, arborean lodge52, reached by an easy flight of steps, furnished with seats and tables, and canopied53 by the green awning54 of the whole tree’s foliage—just[484] the sylvan55 bower31 that makes one long to see a joyous56 party in it on a summer’s day, looking out with glad faces on the passers by; or a rustic company, with their homely57 pots of ale, and the smoke of their pipes circling out amongst the green leaves about them.
This is the old-fashioned country alehouse, such as I am speaking of, only that we are still merely at the entrance of it, still lingering and haunting about the door, while the landlady58 and her daughter are on the fidgets to receive us, and the old landlord comes out with his bare head, and his rustic bow, and greets us with—“A fine old tree that, sir! Their heads don’t ache as planted it, sir;” and the hostler is advancing from the stable to take charge of our vehicle. But walk in. How clean it is! Bless us, what a nice snug59 parlour! What an ample, comfortable kitchen, or house-place as they call it, with its wide fireplace! What an array of plates, dishes, and bright pewter pots on the shelves around, and of hams and flitches dangling60 from the ceiling. It is a substantial place; there is no fear of starvation here. The joint61 is turning at the fire, and the tea-kitchen stands for ever boiling, ready to mix a tumbler of spirits, or to make coffee or tea at all hours.
These country inns are, of course, some greater, some less; some richer, some more simple—according to their custom, situation, or other contingent62 circumstances; but they are generally clean to a miracle, and plentiful63 places. The travelling carriages stop to bait there, for it is between towns; the squire64 comes there occasionally, for he patronizes it, and has all private and public meetings held there. Most probably it is his own property, and its sign the arms of his family; and what is quite as likely, the landlord is his old servant. Half of these places are kept by old servants of the neighbouring families, who have married and retired to public life. The groom65, the coachman, nay66 the valet or the butler, has married the lady’s maid, or the comely67 laundress, or a daughter of a neighbouring farmer, and there is nothing he can so readily fashion himself to as an inn. It is something after his own way—he is still waiting on somebody at table or at carriage. He is knowing in horses and dogs, and he can’t be well spared out of the neighbourhood. He is acquainted with all the farmers, and their acquaintance all round, and they come to the house. In[485] nine cases out of ten he has a farm attached to his inn. In other cases, our country innkeeper is a maltster too, or a miller68; and these are the country inns for good cheer. O, what cream, what fresh butter, what fresh eggs, what fresh vegetables, what plump tender pullets, what geese and ducks for the roasting, with all appendages69 of peas and onions, cucumbers and asparagus, can that larder70 produce which is situated in the Goshen of rural plenty; where the malt-kiln is at hand instead of the druggist’s shop; where barley71 is steeped instead of coculus; where the hostel72 has a plentiful garden at its back, and a good farm behind that.
Go up to your bed-chamber; you are delighted with its sweetness—its freshness—its cleanness. You fairly stand to snuff up the air that comes in at the open window. You turn to admire the clean white bed—the snowy sheets—the fresh carpet—the old-fashioned walnut73 drawers, and wide elbow-chairs of massy workmanship, with damask cushions, clean, though much worn, which have been purchased at the sale of some ancient manor-house. All is as bright and clean as busy and country hands can make them. There is lavender in the drawers! You may, indeed, if you please, be laid in lavender; for you have only to look out of your window, and the garden below has whole hedges of lavender, and there are trees of rosemary nailed up your walls to the very window-sills of the room. And then you see such filbert-bushes, such damson, and plum, and apple, and pear trees, that you have visions of apple dumplings, damson tarts74, and a hundred other rural dainties. And now, if you want to study the character of the place; if you are staying some few days, and are curious in “the short and simple annals of the poor;” if you want to paint like Moreland or Gainsborough; or to vie with Miss Mitford in sunshiny pictures of an English village, there you are in the very watch-tower of observation.
You look out on the green, and there comes all the population—the old to talk and smoke their pipes, the young to play at skittles, nine-pins, quoits, or cricket. You see out over fields and farms; whatever, or whoever you meet with in your walks,—cottage or hall, man, woman, or child,—your landlord can give the whole history and mystery of it; and besides, as I have said, there every[486] body comes. The clergyman himself comes there sometimes to meet his neighbours, on parish or other affairs. All the gentlemen farmers and plodding75 farmers, the keepers, the labourers,—every body has some business at one time or another there. There are the privileged guests of the bar, the frequenters of the best parlour, the rustic circle of the kitchen fireside. There the wedding-party comes, and often dines there. There the very followers76 of the funeral find some occasion or need of comfort to draw them.[28] There the soldier on furlough halts—the recruits marching to their destination halt too. If it be a country that is at all frequented for its natural beauty or curiosities, or for sporting, there is always some wild-looking animal or other, a “man at a loose end,” ready to guide you to the moors77, to act as a marker, to carry your game-bag, or your fishing-basket. In all such places there is a wit, an eccentric, a good singer. The Will Wimbles, the broken-down gentlemen, the never-do-wells, all come there. You may see them, and hear them, and when they are gone, may hear all their oddities and their histories; and every evening you shall hear every piece of news, for five miles round, as related and canvassed78 over by the guests amongst themselves. Many of these landlords are themselves perfect originals; and by their humour, their racy anecdotes79, and “random shots of country wit,” draw numbers to their ingle. If any of my readers have heard old Matthew Jobson, of the Nag’s Head, Wythburn, at the foot of Helvelyn, holding forth80 in the midst of the rustic frequenters of his hearth81, they have a good notion of such Bonifaces,—men that can furnish a Wordsworth or a Crabbe with the rough diamond of a story which they set in imperishable gold,—or flash out sparks of native wit that afterwards set the tables of city palaces in a roar.
[28] In Wales the attenders of a country funeral adjourn82, as regularly as they attend the funeral itself, to the alehouse; and it strikes an Englishman very strangely, to meet a funeral going to the church, and to hear the chief mourner, perhaps the widow, crying aloud, and repeating as she goes, all the virtues83 of the deceased; and in an hour after, to find the whole company seated in the public house, enveloped84 in a canopy85 of tobacco-smoke, loud in talk, and drowning their sorrow in their cups. I recollect86 how my feelings were harrowed by meeting such a funeral, and a widow just so lamenting87; but the gentleman with me, a resident of the place, said “O, it is all the better—they run off the poignancy88 of their feelings by their lamentations. Their grief seems like one of their mountain torrents—loud and rapid, and then it is gone.”
[487]
But lest I should be accused of tempting90 my readers into the abodes91 of publicans and sinners, I must again remind them that I am only talking of those quiet, respectable old country inns, where the master and mistress had a character to maintain, had a regard to the opinion of the parson and the squire; and of those only as places of necessary refreshment92. As parts and parcels of English rural life, I am bound to describe them; and who has not spent a pleasant hour in such a place with a friend, on a pedestrianizing excursion, or with a rural party at dinner or tea? And who has not rejoiced to escape from night and storms, on wide heaths or amongst the mountains, to the “shelter of such rustic roof?” Into such a house I remember, years ago, being driven by a wild night of wind, rain, and pitchy darkness, on the edge of Yorkshire, and the cheerful blaze of the fire, and the rustic group round it, as I entered, were a right welcome contrast to the tempestuous93 blackness without. Wet, and cold, and weary as I was, I had no intention of being conducted to the best parlour of so small a house as this was, in so secluded94 a part of the country, on a dismal95 night in October. Whoever is obliged at such a season to betake himself to such humble96 hostel, let him, if he do not find a good fire blazing in the parlour, seat himself in the old chimney-corner: there he is sure of warmth and comfort in a homely way. In summer a rustic inn, in the most obscure district, is pleasant enough; but in winter beware! Travellers are few—the best parlour is probably not used once a month, for all country incomers know that the old chimney-corner is always warm. Instead, therefore, of being led, as is the regular custom, on the arrival of a respectable looking stranger, into the best parlour, while a fire is lighted, and of waiting, chill and miserable97, for its burning up, and for the coming of your tea or supper, watching the smoking, snapping, fizzing sticks, and the reek98, refused ascent99 up the damp chimney, ever and anon puffing100 out into the room in clouds—march at once into the common room, or ensconce yourself as a privileged guest in the bar. If you find a fire blazing in the parlour, that is indication that there is passing enough on that road to keep one burning there: if not, the blazing ingle is your spot. There I took my station, with a high wooden screen behind me, a bright hearth before me; and having ordered[488] a beef-steak and coffee, and secured the room over this very one for my lodging101, knowing that that too is always dry in winter, I began to notice what company I had got. The scene presented is worth describing, as a bit of rural life. About half a dozen villagers occupied the centre of the great circular wooden screen, at one end of which I was seated. Before them stood the common three-legged round table of the country public-house, on which stood their mugs of ale. The table, screen, fire-irons, floor, every thing had an air of the greatest cleanness. Opposite to me, in one of the great old elbow-chairs, so common in country inns in the north, some of them, indeed, with rockers to them, in which full-grown people sit rocking themselves with as much satisfaction as children, sate an old man in duffil-grey trousers and jacket, and with his hat on; and close at my left hand a tall, good-looking fellow of apparently102 fifty-five, who had the dress of a master stonemason, but a look of vivacity103 and knowingness, very different to the rest of the company. There was a look of the wag, or the rake about him. He was, in fact, evidently a fellow that in any place or station would be a gay, roystering blade; and if dressed in a court dress, would cut a gallant104 figure too. He eyed me with that expression which said he only wanted half a word to make himself very communicative. The check which my entrance had given to the talk and laughter which I heard on first opening the door, had now passed, and I found a keen dispute going on, upon the important question of how many quicksets there are in a yard, when planted four inches asunder105. The old man opposite I found was what a punster would term a fencing-master,—a planter of fences,—a founder106 and establisher of hawthorn107 hedges for the whole country round; and out of his profession the dispute had arisen. The whole question hinged on the simple inquiry108, whether a quickset was put in at the very commencement of the line of fence, or only at the end of the first four inches. In the first case there would be evidently nine—in the latter only eight. The matter in dispute was so simple and demonstrable, that one wondered how it could afford a dispute at all. Some, however, contended there were eight quicksets, and some that there were nine; and to demonstrate, they had chalked out the line of fence with its division into yards, and sub-division into four inches, on[489] the hearth with a cinder109; but the dispute still went on as keenly as if the thing were not thus plainly before their eyes, or as disputes continue in a more national assembly on things as self-evident: and many an earnest appeal was made from both sides to the old hedger, who having once given his decision, disdained110 to return any further reply than by a quiet withdrawal111 of his pipe from his mouth, a quiet draught112 of ale, and the simple asseveration of—“Nay, I’m sure!” The debate might have grown as tediously prolix113 as the debates just alluded114 to, had not my left-hand neighbour, the tall man of lively aspect, turned to me, and, pointing to the cindery115 diagram on the hearth, said, “What things these stay-at-home neighbours of mine can make a dispute out of! What would Ben Jonson have thought of such simpletons? Look here! if these noisy chaps had ever read a line of Homer or Hesiod, they wouldn’t plague their seven senses out about nothing at all. Why, any child of a twelvemonth old would settle their mighty question with the first word it learned to speak. Eight or nine quicksets indeed! and James Broadfoot there, who should know rather better than them, for he has planted as many in his time as would reach all round England, and Ireland to boot, has told them ten times over. Eight or nine numbskulls, I say!”
“O!” said I, a good deal surprised—“and so you have read Homer and Hesiod, have you?”
“To be sure I have,” replied my mercurial116 neighbour, “and a few other poets too. I have not spent all my life in this sleepy-headed place, I can assure you.”
“What, you have travelled as well as read, then?”
“Yes, and I have travelled too, master. Ben Jonson was a stonemason; and if I am not a stonemason I am a sculptor117, and that is first-cousin to it. When Ben Jonson first entered London with a hod of mortar118 on his head, and a two-foot rule in his pocket, I dare say he knew no more that he had twenty plays in his head, than I knew of all the cherubims I should carve, and the epitaphs I should cut; and yet I have cut a few in my time, and written them too beforehand.”
“O! and you are a poet too?”
He nodded assent119, and taking up his mug of ale, and fixing his eyes stedfastly on me over the top of it as he drank with a[490] look of triumph,—then setting down his mug—“And if you want to know that, you have only to walk into the churchyard in the morning, and there you’ll find plenty of my verses, and cut with a pen of iron too, as Job wished his elegy120 to be.” Here, however, lest I should not walk into the churchyard, he recited a whole host of epitaphs, many of which must have made epitaph-hunters stare, if they really were put on headstones.
“Well,” I said, “you astonish me with your learning and wit. I certainly did not look for such a person in this village—but pray where have you travelled?”
“O! it’s a long story—but this I can tell you—I have gone so near to the end of the world that I could not put sixpence between my head and the sky.”
At this the whole company of disputants forgot their quicksets, lifted their heads and cried—“Well done Septimus Scallop! That’s a good ’un. If the gentleman can swallow that, he can anything.”
“O!” said I, “I don’t doubt it.”
“Don’t doubt it!” they shouted all at once—“don’t doubt it? Why, do you think any man ever could get to where the sky was so low as he couldn’t get in sixpence between his head and it?”
“Yes he could, and often has done—make yourself sure of that. If a man has not a sixpence he cannot put it between his head and the sky; and he is pretty near the world’s end too, I think.”
Here they all burst into a shout of laughter, in the midst of which open flew the door, and a tall figure rushed into the middle of the house, wrapped in a shaggy coat of many capes121, dripping with wet, and holding up a huge horn lantern. A face of wonderful length and of a ghastly aspect glared from behind the lantern, and a voice of the most ludicrous lamentation89 bawled122 out—“For God’s sake, lads, come and help me to find my wagon123 and horses! I’ve lost my wagon! I’ve lost my wagon!” Up jumped the whole knot of disputants, and demanded where he had lost it. The man said that while he went to deliver a parcel in the village, the wagon had gone on. That he heard it at a distance, and cried, “woa! woa!” but the harder he cried, and the farther he went, the faster it went too. At this intelligence away marched every one of the good-natured crew excepting the wit. “And why do[491]n’t you go?” I asked.—“Go! pugh! It’s only that soft brother of mine, Tim Scallop, the Doncaster carrier. I’ll be bound now that the wagon hasn’t moved an inch from the spot he left it in. He has heard the wind roaring, and doesn’t know it from his own wagon wheels. Here these poor simpletons will go running their hearts out for some miles, and then they will come back and find the horses where he left them. I could go and lay my hand on them in five minutes. But they are just as well employed as in griming Mrs. Tappit’s hearthstone. Never mind;—I was telling you of what the hostler said to Ben Jonson when Ben was reeling home early one morning from a carouse124, and Ben declared that he was never so pricked125 with a horsenail-stump in his life—
Ben.—
Thou silly groom
Take away thy broom,
And let Ben Jonson pass:
Groom.—
O! rare Ben!
Turn back again,
And take another glass!”
Septimus Scallop laughed at the hostler’s repartee126, and I laughed too, but my amusement had a different source from his. There was something irresistibly127 ludicrous in the generous rushing forth of the whole company to the aid of the poor carrier, except the witty128 brother! But he was quite right: in about an hour, in came the good-natured men, streaming with rain like drowned rats, and declaring that after running three miles and finding no wagon, they bethought themselves of turning back to where the carrier said it was lost; and there they had nearly run their noses against it, standing exactly where he left it.
So much for the village inn. Every traveller must have seen in such a place many a similar piece of country life. A new class of alehouses has sprung up under the New Beer Act, which being generally kept by people without capital, often without character; their liquor supplied by the public brewers, and adulterated by themselves; have done more to demoralize the population of both town and country, than any other legislative129 measure within the last century. In these low, dirty, fuddling places, you may look in vain for
The whitewashed130 wall, the nicely sanded floor,
[492]
In manufacturing towns, and agricultural districts, they alike multiply the temptations to the poor man, and by their low character are sure to deteriorate132 his own. Against the swarms133 of these, in many places, the quiet respectable old village inn has little chance. It must disappear, or be kept by a different and a worse class of people; and when it goes, it goes with Goldsmith’s graphic134 lamentation—for very different are the shops that succeed it:
Vain transitory splendours! could not all
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour’s importance to the poor man’s heart.
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer’s news, the barber’s tale,
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
The host himself no longer shall be found,
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
rendezvous
|
|
| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
hood
|
|
| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
licensed
|
|
| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
premises
|
|
| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
blazoned
|
|
| v.广布( blazon的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布；夸示；装饰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
situated
|
|
| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
toil
|
|
| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
whit
|
|
| n.一点，丝毫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
casement
|
|
| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
knotty
|
|
| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
swelled
|
|
| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
prodigious
|
|
| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
rustic
|
|
| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
hewing
|
|
| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的现在分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
mound
|
|
| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
yew
|
|
| n.紫杉属树木 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
robin
|
|
| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
mighty
|
|
| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
grove
|
|
| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
likeness
|
|
| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
metropolitan
|
|
| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
orchards
|
|
| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
orchard
|
|
| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
scattered
|
|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
prospects
|
|
| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
winding
|
|
| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
bower
|
|
| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
grassy
|
|
| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
brook
|
|
| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
poetical
|
|
| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
retirement
|
|
| n.退休，退职 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
bucks
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
panoramic
|
|
| adj. 全景的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
celebrated
|
|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
patriotic
|
|
| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
beguiled
|
|
| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
conversing
|
|
| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
sate
|
|
| v.使充分满足 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
discourse
|
|
| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
tolled
|
|
| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
behold
|
|
| v.看，注视，看到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
upwards
|
|
| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
remarkable
|
|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
lodge
|
|
| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
canopied
|
|
| adj. 遮有天篷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
awning
|
|
| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
sylvan
|
|
| adj.森林的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
joyous
|
|
| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
homely
|
|
| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
landlady
|
|
| n.女房东，女地主 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
snug
|
|
| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
dangling
|
|
| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
joint
|
|
| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
contingent
|
|
| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
plentiful
|
|
| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
squire
|
|
| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
groom
|
|
| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
nay
|
|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
comely
|
|
| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
miller
|
|
| n.磨坊主 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
appendages
|
|
| n.附属物( appendage的名词复数 )；依附的人；附属器官；附属肢体（如臂、腿、尾等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
larder
|
|
| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
barley
|
|
| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
hostel
|
|
| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
walnut
|
|
| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
tarts
|
|
| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
plodding
|
|
| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
followers
|
|
| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
moors
|
|
| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
canvassed
|
|
| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的过去式和过去分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
anecdotes
|
|
| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
hearth
|
|
| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
adjourn
|
|
| v.（使）休会，（使）休庭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
virtues
|
|
| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
enveloped
|
|
| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
canopy
|
|
| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
recollect
|
|
| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
lamenting
|
|
| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
poignancy
|
|
| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
lamentation
|
|
| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
tempting
|
|
| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
abodes
|
|
| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
refreshment
|
|
| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
tempestuous
|
|
| adj.狂暴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
secluded
|
|
| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
dismal
|
|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
humble
|
|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
reek
|
|
| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
ascent
|
|
| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
puffing
|
|
| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
lodging
|
|
| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
vivacity
|
|
| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
gallant
|
|
| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
asunder
|
|
| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
Founder
|
|
| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
hawthorn
|
|
| 山楂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
inquiry
|
|
| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
cinder
|
|
| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
disdained
|
|
| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
withdrawal
|
|
| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
draught
|
|
| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
prolix
|
|
| adj.罗嗦的；冗长的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
alluded
|
|
| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
cindery
|
|
| adj.灰烬的，煤渣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
116
mercurial
|
|
| adj.善变的，活泼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
sculptor
|
|
| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
mortar
|
|
| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
assent
|
|
| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
elegy
|
|
| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
capes
|
|
| 碎谷； 斗篷( cape的名词复数 )； 披肩； 海角； 岬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
bawled
|
|
| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
wagon
|
|
| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
carouse
|
|
| v.狂欢；痛饮；n.狂饮的宴会 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
pricked
|
|
| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
repartee
|
|
| n.机敏的应答 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
irresistibly
|
|
| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
witty
|
|
| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
legislative
|
|
| n.立法机构，立法权；adj.立法的，有立法权的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
whitewashed
|
|
| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
varnished
|
|
| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
deteriorate
|
|
| v.变坏；恶化；退化 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
swarms
|
|
| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
graphic
|
|
| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
reprieve
|
|
| n.暂缓执行（死刑）；v.缓期执行；给…带来缓解 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
tottering
|
|
| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
mansion
|
|
| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
thither
|
|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
ballad
|
|
| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
ponderous
|
|
| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
mantling
|
|
| 覆巾 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
142
bliss
|
|
| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |