But to make up my tale,
She breweth good ale,
And thereof maketh sale.
SKELTON.
Although few, if any, of the countries of Europe, have increased so rapidly in wealth and cultivation2 as Scotland during the last half century, Sultan Mahmoud’s owls3 might nevertheless have found in Caledonia, at any term within that flourishing period, their dowery of ruined villages. Accident or local advantages have, in many instances, transferred the inhabitants of ancient hamlets, from the situations which their predecessors4 chose with more respect to security than convenience, to those in which their increasing industry and commerce could more easily expand itself; and hence places which stand distinguished5 in Scottish history, and which figure in David M’Pherson’s excellent historical map,E11 can now only be discerned from the wild moor6 by the verdure which clothes their site, or, at best, by a few scattered7 ruins, resembling pinfolds, which mark the spot of their former existence.
The little village of St. Ronan’s, though it had not yet fallen into the state of entire oblivion we have described, was, about twenty years since, fast verging8 towards it. The situation had something in it so romantic, that it provoked the pencil of every passing tourist; and we will endeavour, therefore, to describe it in language which can scarcely be less intelligible9 than some of their sketches10, avoiding, however, for reasons which seem to us of weight, to give any more exact indication of the site, than that it is on the southern side of the Forth11, and not above thirty miles distant from the English frontier.
A river of considerable magnitude pours its streams through a narrow vale, varying in breadth from two miles to a fourth of that distance, and which, being composed of rich alluvial12 soil, is, and has long been, enclosed, tolerably well inhabited, and cultivated with all the skill of Scottish agriculture. Either side of this valley is bounded by a chain of hills, which, on the right in particular, may be almost termed mountains. Little brooks13 arising in these ridges15, and finding their way to the river, offer each its own little vale to the industry of the cultivator. Some of them bear fine large trees, which have as yet escaped the axe16, and upon the sides of most there are scattered patches and fringes of natural copsewood, above and around which the banks of the stream arise, somewhat desolate17 in the colder months, but in summer glowing with dark purple heath, or with the golden lustre18 of the broom and gorse. This is a sort of scenery peculiar19 to those countries, which abound20, like Scotland, in hills and in streams, and where the traveller is ever and anon discovering in some intricate and unexpected recess21, a simple and silvan beauty, which pleases him the more, that it seems to be peculiarly his own property as the first discoverer.
In one of these recesses22, and so near its opening as to command the prospect23 of the river, the broader valley, and the opposite chain of hills, stood, and, unless neglect and desertion have completed their work, still stands, the ancient and decayed village of St. Ronan’s. The site was singularly picturesque24, as the straggling street of the village ran up a very steep hill, on the side of which were clustered, as it were, upon little terraces, the cottages which composed the place, seeming, as in the Swiss towns on the Alps, to rise above each other towards the ruins of an old castle, which continued to occupy the crest25 of the eminence26, and the strength of which had doubtless led the neighbourhood to assemble under its walls for protection. It must, indeed, have been a place of formidable defence, for, on the side opposite to the town, its walls rose straight up from the verge27 of a tremendous and rocky precipice28, whose base was washed by Saint Ronan’s burn, as the brook14 was entitled. On the southern side, where the declivity29 was less precipitous, the ground had been carefully levelled into successive terraces, which ascended30 to the summit of the hill, and were, or rather had been, connected by staircases of stone, rudely ornamented31. In peaceful periods these terraces had been occupied by the gardens of the Castle, and in times of siege they added to its security, for each commanded the one immediately below it, so that they could be separately and successively defended, and all were exposed to the fire from the place itself — a massive square tower of the largest size, surrounded, as usual, by lower buildings, and a high embattled wall. On the northern side arose a considerable mountain, of which the descent that lay between the eminence on which the Castle was situated32 seemed a detached portion, and which had been improved and deepened by three successive huge trenches33. Another very deep trench34 was drawn35 in front of the main entrance from the east, where the principal gateway36 formed the termination of the street, which, as we have noticed, ascended from the village, and this last defence completed the fortifications of the tower.
In the ancient gardens of the Castle, and upon all sides of it excepting the western, which was precipitous, large old trees had found root, mantling37 the rock and the ancient and ruinous walls with their dusky verdure, and increasing the effect of the shattered pile which towered up from the centre.
Seated on the threshold of this ancient pile, where the “proud porter” had in former days “rear’d himself,”2 a stranger had a complete and commanding view of the decayed village, the houses of which, to a fanciful imagination, might seem as if they had been suddenly arrested in hurrying down the precipitous hill, and fixed38 as if by magic in the whimsical arrangement which they now presented. It was like a sudden pause in one of Amphion’s country-dances, when the huts which were to form the future Thebes were jigging39 it to his lute40. But, with such an observer, the melancholy41 excited by the desolate appearance of the village soon overcame all the lighter42 frolics of the imagination. Originally constructed on the humble43 plan used in the building of Scotch44 cottages about a century ago, the greater part of them had been long deserted45; and their fallen roofs, blackened gables, and ruinous walls, showed Desolation’s triumph over Poverty. On some huts the rafters, varnished46 with soot47, were still standing48, in whole or in part, like skeletons, and a few, wholly or partially49 covered with thatch50, seemed still inhabited, though scarce habitable; for the smoke of the peat-fires, which prepared the humble meal of the indwellers, stole upwards51, not only from the chimneys, its regular vent52, but from various other crevices53 in the roofs. Nature, in the meanwhile, always changing, but renewing as she changes, was supplying, by the power of vegetation, the fallen and decaying marks of human labour. Small pollards, which had been formerly54 planted around the little gardens, had now waxed into huge and high forest trees; the fruit-trees had extended their branches over the verges55 of the little yards, and the hedges had shot up into huge and irregular bushes; while quantities of dock, and nettles56, and hemlock57, hiding the ruined walls, were busily converting the whole scene of desolation into a picturesque forest-bank.
Two houses in St. Ronan’s were still in something like decent repair; places essential — the one to the spiritual weal of the inhabitants, the other to the accommodation of travellers. These were the clergyman’s manse, and the village inn. Of the former we need only say, that it formed no exception to the general rule by which the landed proprietors59 of Scotland seem to proceed in lodging60 their clergy58, not only in the cheapest, but in the ugliest and most inconvenient61 house which the genius of masonry62 can contrive63. It had the usual number of chimneys — two, namely — rising like asses’ ears at either end, which answered the purpose for which they were designed as ill as usual. It had all the ordinary leaks and inlets to the fury of the elements, which usually form the subject of the complaints of a Scottish incumbent64 to his brethren of the presbytery; and, to complete the picture, the clergyman being a bachelor, the pigs had unmolested admission to the garden and court-yard, broken windows were repaired with brown paper, and the disordered and squalid appearance of a low farm-house, occupied by a bankrupt tenant65, dishonoured66 the dwelling67 of one, who, besides his clerical character, was a scholar and a gentleman, though a little of a humourist.
Beside the manse stood the kirk of St. Ronan’s, a little old mansion68 with a clay floor, and an assemblage of wretched pews, originally of carved oak, but heedfully clouted69 with white fir-deal. But the external form of the church was elegant in the outline, having been built in Catholic times, when we cannot deny to the forms of ecclesiastical architecture that grace, which, as good Protestants, we refuse to their doctrine70. The fabric71 hardly raised its grey and vaulted72 roof among the crumbling74 hills of mortality by which it was surrounded, and was indeed so small in size, and so much lowered in height by the graves on the outside, which ascended half way up the low Saxon windows, that it might itself have appeared only a funeral vault73, or mausoleum of larger size. Its little square tower, with the ancient belfry, alone distinguished it from such a monument. But when the grey-headed beadle turned the keys with his shaking hand, the antiquary was admitted into an ancient building, which, from the style of its architecture, and some monuments of the Mowbrays of St. Ronan’s, which the old man was accustomed to point out, was generally conjectured76 to be as early as the thirteenth century.
These Mowbrays of St. Ronan’s seem to have been at one time a very powerful family. They were allied77 to, and friends of the house of Douglas, at the time when the overgrown power of that heroic race made the Stewarts tremble on the Scottish throne. It followed that, when, as our old na?f historian expresses it, “no one dared to strive with a Douglas, nor yet with a Douglas’s man, for if he did, he was sure to come by the waur,” the family of St. Ronan’s shared their prosperity, and became lords of almost the whole of the rich valley of which their mansion commanded the prospect. But upon the turning of the tide, in the reign78 of James II., they became despoiled79 of the greater part of those fair acquisitions, and succeeding events reduced their importance still farther. Nevertheless, they were, in the middle of the seventeenth century, still a family of considerable note; and Sir Reginald Mowbray, after the unhappy battle of Dunbar, distinguished himself by the obstinate80 defence of the Castle against the arms of Cromwell, who, incensed81 at the opposition82 which he had unexpectedly encountered in an obscure corner, caused the fortress83 to be dismantled84 and blown up with gunpowder85.
After this catastrophe86 the old Castle was abandoned to ruin; but Sir Reginald, when, like Allan Ramsay’s Sir William Worthy87, he returned after the Revolution, built himself a house in the fashion of that later age, which he prudently88 suited in size to the diminished fortunes of his family. It was situated about the middle of the village, whose vicinity was not in those days judged any inconvenience, upon a spot of ground more level than was presented by the rest of the acclivity, where, as we said before, the houses were notched89 as it were into the side of the steep bank, with little more level ground about them than the spot occupied by their site. But the Laird’s house had a court in front and a small garden behind, connected with another garden, which, occupying three terraces, descended90, in emulation91 of the orchards92 of the old Castle, almost to the banks of the stream.
The family continued to inhabit this new messuage until about fifty years before the commencement of our history, when it was much damaged by a casual fire; and the Laird of the day, having just succeeded to a more pleasant and commodious94 dwelling at the distance of about three miles from the village, determined95 to abandon the habitation of his ancestors. As he cut down at the same time an ancient rookery, (perhaps to defray the expenses of the migration,) it became a common remark among the country folk, that the decay of St. Ronan’s began when Laird Lawrence and the crows flew off.
The deserted mansion, however, was not consigned96 to owls and birds of the desert; on the contrary, for many years it witnessed more fun and festivity than when it had been the sombre abode97 of a grave Scottish Baron98 of “auld99 lang syne100.” In short, it was converted into an inn, and marked by a huge sign, representing on the one side St. Ronan catching101 hold of the devil’s game leg with his Episcopal crook102, as the story may be read in his veracious103 legend, and on the other the Mowbray arms. It was by far the best frequented public-house in that vicinity; and a thousand stories were told of the revels104 which had been held within its walls, and the gambols105 achieved under the influence of its liquors. All this, however, had long since passed away, according to the lines in my frontispiece,
“A merry place, ’twas said, in days of yore;
But something ail’d it now — the place was cursed.”
The worthy couple (servants and favourites of the Mowbray family) who first kept the inn, had died reasonably wealthy, after long carrying on a flourishing trade, leaving behind them an only daughter. They had acquired by degrees not only the property of the inn itself, of which they were originally tenants106, but of some remarkably107 good meadow-land by the side of the brook, which, when touched by a little pecuniary108 necessity, the Lairds of St. Ronan’s had disposed of piecemeal109, as the readiest way to portion off a daughter, procure110 a commission for the younger son, and the like emergencies. So that Meg Dods, when she succeeded to her parents, was a considerable heiress, and, as such, had the honour of refusing three topping-farmers, two bonnet-lairds, and a horse-couper, who successively made proposals to her.
Many bets were laid on the horse-couper’s success, but the knowing ones were taken in. Determined to ride the fore-horse herself, Meg would admit no helpmate who might soon assert the rights of a master; and so, in single blessedness, and with the despotism of Queen Bess herself, she ruled all matters with a high hand, not only over her men-servants and maid-servants, but over the stranger within her gates, who, if he ventured to oppose Meg’s sovereign will and pleasure, or desire to have either fare or accommodation different from that which she chose to provide for him, was instantly ejected with that answer which Erasmus tells us silenced all complaints in the German inns of his time, Qu?re aliud hospitium;3 or, as Meg expressed it, “Troop aff wi’ ye to another public.” As this amounted to a banishment111 in extent equal to sixteen miles from Meg’s residence, the unhappy party on whom it was passed, had no other refuge save by deprecating the wrath112 of his landlady, and resigning himself to her will. It is but justice to Meg Dods to state, that though hers was a severe and almost despotic government, it could not be termed a tyranny, since it was exercised, upon the whole, for the good of the subject.
The vaults113 of the old Laird’s cellar had not, even in his own day, been replenished114 with more excellent wines; the only difficulty was to prevail on Meg to look for the precise liquor you chose; — to which it may be added, that she often became restiff when she thought a company had had “as much as did them good,” and refused to furnish any more supplies. Then her kitchen was her pride and glory; she looked to the dressing115 of every dish herself, and there were some with which she suffered no one to interfere116. Such were the cock-a-leeky, and the savoury minced117 collops, which rivalled in their way even the veal118 cutlets of our old friend Mrs. Hall, at Ferrybridge. Meg’s table-linen, bed-linen, and so forth, were always home-made, of the best quality, and in the best order; and a weary day was that to the chambermaid in which her lynx eye discovered any neglect of the strict cleanliness which she constantly enforced. Indeed, considering Meg’s country and calling, we were never able to account for her extreme and scrupulous119 nicety, unless by supposing that it afforded her the most apt and frequent pretext120 for scolding her maids; an exercise in which she displayed so much eloquence121 and energy, that we must needs believe it to have been a favourite one.4
We have only further to commemorate122, the moderation of Meg’s reckonings, which, when they closed the banquet, often relieved the apprehensions123, instead of saddening the heart, of the rising guest. A shilling for breakfast, three shillings for dinner, including a pint124 of old port, eighteenpence for a snug125 supper — such were the charges of the inn of St. Ronan’s, under this landlady of the olden world, even after the nineteenth century had commenced; and they were ever tendered with the pious126 recollection, that her good father never charged half so much, but these weary times rendered it impossible for her to make the lawing less.5
Notwithstanding all these excellent and rare properties, the inn at Saint Ronan’s shared the decay of the village to which it belonged. This was owing to various circumstances. The high-road had been turned aside from the place, the steepness of the street being murder (so the postilions declared) to their post-horses. It was thought that Meg’s stern refusal to treat them with liquor, or to connive127 at their exchanging for porter and whisky the corn which should feed their cattle, had no small influence on the opinion of those respectable gentlemen, and that a little cutting and levelling would have made the ascent128 easy enough; but let that pass. This alteration129 of the highway was an injury which Meg did not easily forgive to the country gentlemen, most of whom she had recollected130 when children. “Their fathers,” she said, “wad not have done the like of it to a lone75 woman.” Then the decay of the village itself, which had formerly contained a set of feuars and bonnet-lairds, who, under the name of the Chirupping Club, contrived131 to drink twopenny, qualified132 with brandy or whisky, at least twice or thrice a-week, was some small loss.
The temper and manners of the landlady scared away all customers of that numerous class, who will not allow originality133 to be an excuse for the breach134 of decorum, and who, little accustomed perhaps to attendance at home, loved to play the great man at an inn, and to have a certain number of bows, deferential135 speeches, and apologies, in answer to the G— d d — n ye’s which they bestow136 on the house, attendance, and entertainment. Unto those who commenced this sort of barter137 in the Clachan of Saint Ronan’s, well could Meg Dods pay it back, in their own coin; and glad they were to escape from the house with eyes not quite scratched out, and ears not more deafened138 than if they had been within hearing of a pitched battle.
Nature had formed honest Meg for such encounters; and as her noble soul delighted in them, so her outward properties were in what Tony Lumpkin calls a concatenation accordingly. She had hair of a brindled139 colour, betwixt black and grey, which was apt to escape in elf-locks from under her mutch when she was thrown into violent agitation140 — long skinny hands, terminated by stout141 talons142 — grey eyes, thin lips, a robust143 person, a broad, though flat chest, capital wind, and a voice that could match a choir144 of fishwomen. She was accustomed to say of herself in her more gentle moods, that her bark was worse than her bite; but what teeth could have matched a tongue, which, when in full career, is vouched145 to have been heard from the Kirk to the Castle of Saint Ronan’s?
These notable gifts, however, had no charms for the travellers of these light and giddy-paced times, and Meg’s inn became less and less frequented. What carried the evil to the uttermost was, that a fanciful lady of rank in the neighbourhood chanced to recover of some imaginary complaint by the use of a mineral well about a mile and a half from the village; a fashionable doctor was found to write an analysis of the healing waters, with a list of sundry146 cures; a speculative147 builder took land in feu, and erected149 lodging-houses, shops, and even streets. At length a tontine subscription150 was obtained to erect148 an inn, which, for the more grace, was called a hotel; and so the desertion of Meg Dods became general.6
She had still, however, her friends and well-wishers, many of whom thought, that as she was a lone woman, and known to be well to pass in the world, she would act wisely to retire from public life, and take down a sign which had no longer fascination151 for guests. But Meg’s spirit scorned submission152, direct or implied. “Her father’s door,” she said, “should be open to the road, till her father’s bairn should be streekit and carried out at it with her feet foremost. It was not for the profit — there was little profit at it; — profit? — there was a dead loss; but she wad not be dung by any of them. They maun hae a hottle,7 maun they? — and an honest public canna serve them! They may hottle that likes; but they shall see that Lucky Dods can hottle on as lang as the best of them — ay, though they had made a Tamteen of it, and linkit aw their breaths of lives, whilk are in their nostrils153, on end of ilk other like a string of wild-geese, and the langest liver bruick a’, (whilk was sinful presumption,) she would match ilk ane of them as lang as her ain wind held out.” Fortunate it was for Meg, since she had formed this doughty154 resolution, that although her inn had decayed in custom, her land had risen in value in a degree which more than compensated155 the balance on the wrong side of her books, and, joined to her usual providence156 and economy, enabled her to act up to her lofty purpose.
She prosecuted157 her trade too with every attention to its diminished income; shut up the windows of one half of her house, to baffle the tax-gatherer; retrenched158 her furniture; discharged her pair of post-horses, and pensioned off the old humpbacked postilion who drove them, retaining his services, however, as an assistant to a still more aged93 hostler. To console herself for restrictions159 by which her pride was secretly wounded, she agreed with the celebrated160 Dick Tinto to re-paint her father’s sign, which had become rather undecipherable; and Dick accordingly gilded161 the Bishop’s crook, and augmented162 the horrors of the Devil’s aspect, until it became a terror to all the younger fry of the school-house, and a sort of visible illustration of the terrors of the arch-enemy, with which the minister endeavoured to impress their infant minds.
Under this renewed symbol of her profession, Meg Dods, or Meg Dorts, as she was popularly termed, on account of her refractory163 humours, was still patronised by some steady customers. Such were the members of the Killnakelty Hunt, once famous on the turf and in the field, but now a set of venerable grey-headed sportsmen, who had sunk from fox-hounds to basket-beagles and coursing, and who made an easy canter on their quiet nags164 a gentle induction165 to a dinner at Meg’s. “A set of honest decent men they were,” Meg said; “had their sang and their joke — and what for no? Their bind166 was just a Scots pint over-head, and a tappit-hen to the bill, and no man ever saw them the waur o’t. It was thae cockle-brained callants of the present day that would be mair owerta’en with a puir quart than douce folk were with a magnum.”
Then there was a set of ancient brethren of the angle from Edinburgh, who visited Saint Ronan’s frequently in the spring and summer, a class of guests peculiarly acceptable to Meg, who permitted them more latitude167 in her premises168 than she was known to allow to any other body. “They were,” she said, “pawky auld carles, that kend whilk side their bread was buttered upon. Ye never kend of ony o’ them ganging to the spring, as they behoved to ca’ the stinking169 well yonder. — Na, na — they were up in the morning — had their parritch, wi’ maybe a thimblefull of brandy, and then awa up into the hills, eat their bit cauld meat on the heather, and came hame at e’en with the creel full of caller trouts, and had them to their dinner, and their quiet cogue of ale, and their drap punch, and were set singing their catches and glees, as they ca’d them, till ten o’clock, and then to bed, wi’ God bless ye — and what for no?”
Thirdly, we may commemorate some ranting170 blades, who also came from the metropolis171 to visit Saint Ronan’s, attracted by the humours of Meg, and still more by the excellence172 of her liquor, and the cheapness of her reckonings. These were members of the Helter Skelter Club, of the Wildfire Club, and other associations formed for the express purpose of getting rid of care and sobriety. Such dashers occasioned many a racket in Meg’s house, and many a bourasque in Meg’s temper. Various were the arts of flattery and violence by which they endeavoured to get supplies of liquor, when Meg’s conscience told her they had had too much already. Sometimes they failed, as when the croupier of the Helter Skelter got himself scalded with the mulled wine, in an unsuccessful attempt to coax173 this formidable virago174 by a salute175; and the excellent president of the Wildfire received a broken head from the keys of the cellar, as he endeavoured to possess himself of these emblems176 of authority. But little did these dauntless officials care for the exuberant177 frolics of Meg’s temper, which were to them only “pretty Fanny’s way”— the dulces Amaryllidis ir?. And Meg, on her part, though she often called them “drunken ne’er-do-weels, and thoroughbred High-street blackguards,” allowed no other person to speak ill of them in her hearing. “They were daft callants,” she said, “and that was all — when the drink was in, the wit was out — ye could not put an auld head upon young shouthers — a young cowt will canter, be it up-hill or down — and what for no?” was her uniform conclusion.
Nor must we omit, among Meg’s steady customers, “faithful amongst the unfaithful found,” the copper-nosed sheriff-clerk of the county, who, when summoned by official duty to that district of the shire, warmed by recollections of her double-brewed ale, and her generous Antigua, always advertised that his “Prieves,” or “Comptis,” or whatever other business was in hand, were to proceed on such a day and hour, “within the house of Margaret Dods, vintner in Saint Ronan’s.”
We have only farther to notice Meg’s mode of conducting herself towards chance travellers, who, knowing nothing of nearer or more fashionable accommodations, or perhaps consulting rather the state of their purse than of their taste, stumbled upon her house of entertainment. Her reception of these was as precarious178 as the hospitality of a savage179 nation to sailors shipwrecked on their coast. If the guests seemed to have made her mansion their free choice — or if she liked their appearance (and her taste was very capricious)— above all, if they seemed pleased with what they got, and little disposed to criticise180 or give trouble, it was all very well. But if they had come to Saint Ronan’s because the house at the Well was full — or if she disliked what the sailor calls the cut of their jib — or if, above all, they were critical about their accommodations, none so likely as Meg to give them what in her country is called a sloan. In fact, she reckoned such persons a part of that ungenerous and ungrateful public, for whose sake she was keeping her house open at a dead loss, and who had left her, as it were, a victim to her patriotic181 zeal182.
Hence arose the different reports concerning the little inn of Saint Ronan’s, which some favoured travellers praised as the neatest and most comfortable old-fashioned house in Scotland, where you had good attendance, and good cheer, at moderate rates; while others, less fortunate, could only talk of the darkness of the rooms, the homeliness183 of the old furniture, and the detestable bad humour of Meg Dods, the landlady.
Reader, if you come from the more sunny side of the Tweed — or even if, being a Scot, you have had the advantage to be born within the last twenty-five years, you may be induced to think this portrait of Queen Elizabeth, in Dame184 Quickly’s piqued185 hat and green apron186, somewhat overcharged in the features. But I appeal to my own contemporaries, who have known wheel-road, bridle-way, and footpath187, for thirty years, whether they do not, every one of them, remember Meg Dods — or somebody very like her. Indeed, so much is this the case, that, about the period I mention, I should have been afraid to have rambled188 from the Scottish metropolis, in almost any direction, lest I had lighted upon some one of the sisterhood of Dame Quickly, who might suspect me of having showed her up to the public in the character of Meg Dods. At present, though it is possible that some one or two of this peculiar class of wild-cats may still exist, their talons must be much impaired189 by age; and I think they can do little more than sit, like the Giant Pope, in the Pilgrim’s Progress, at the door of their unfrequented caverns190, and grin at the pilgrims over whom they used formerly to execute their despotism.
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1
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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alluvial
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| adj.冲积的；淤积的 | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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19
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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20
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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21
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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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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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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24
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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25
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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26
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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27
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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28
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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29
declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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30
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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33
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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34
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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35
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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36
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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37
mantling
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| 覆巾 | |
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38
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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39
jigging
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| n.跳汰选，簸选v.（使）上下急动( jig的现在分词 ) | |
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40
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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41
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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42
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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43
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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44
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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45
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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46
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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47
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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48
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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49
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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50
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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51
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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52
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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53
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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54
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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55
verges
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| 边，边缘，界线( verge的名词复数 ) | |
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56
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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57
hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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58
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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59
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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60
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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61
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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62
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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63
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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64
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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65
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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66
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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67
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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68
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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69
clouted
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| adj.缀补的，凝固的v.（尤指用手）猛击，重打( clout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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71
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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72
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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73
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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74
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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75
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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76
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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78
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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79
despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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81
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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82
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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83
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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84
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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85
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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86
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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87
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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88
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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89
notched
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| a.有凹口的，有缺口的 | |
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90
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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91
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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92
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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93
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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94
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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95
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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96
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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97
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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98
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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99
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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100
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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101
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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102
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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103
veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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104
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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105
gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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106
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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107
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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108
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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109
piecemeal
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|
| adj.零碎的；n.片，块；adv.逐渐地；v.弄成碎块 | |
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110
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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111
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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112
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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113
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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114
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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115
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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116
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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117
minced
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| v.切碎( mince的过去式和过去分词 )；剁碎；绞碎；用绞肉机绞（食物，尤指肉） | |
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118
veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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119
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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120
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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121
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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122
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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123
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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124
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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125
snug
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| 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 | |
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126
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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127
connive
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| v.纵容；密谋 | |
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128
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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129
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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130
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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132
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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133
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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134
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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135
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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136
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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137
barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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138
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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139
brindled
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| adj.有斑纹的 | |
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140
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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142
talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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143
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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144
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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145
vouched
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| v.保证( vouch的过去式和过去分词 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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146
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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147
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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148
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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149
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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150
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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151
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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152
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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153
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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154
doughty
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| adj.勇猛的，坚强的 | |
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155
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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156
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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157
prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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158
retrenched
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| v.紧缩开支( retrench的过去式和过去分词 )；削减（费用）；节省 | |
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159
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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160
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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161
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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162
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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163
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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164
nags
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| n.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的名词复数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的第三人称单数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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165
induction
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| n.感应，感应现象 | |
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166
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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167
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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168
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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169
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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170
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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171
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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172
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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173
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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174
virago
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| n.悍妇 | |
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175
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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176
emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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177
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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178
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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179
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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180
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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181
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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182
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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183
homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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184
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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185
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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186
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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187
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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188
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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189
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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190
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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