ON THE SUMMIT OF BUSSACO, THE CRUZ ALTA.
Our road lay downward for a mile or two, through a beautiful country of pines and gorgeous stretches of purple heather in full bloom; and here and there long trellised vineyards, 123with the red bronze of the vine-leaves adding a splash of colour to the scene. As we wound down and along the plain, there always towered above us, as it seemed right overhead, the “Cruz Alta” of Bussaco amidst the trees at the highest point of the wood, near where the wall limited the greenery; and soon the whole of the long, sharp hog’s-back of granite15 ridge16, standing17 clear and distinct from surrounding mountains, tremendous in bulk, is seen from the plain. It was hard to realise that only yesterday I had stood, without fatigue18 or trouble, upon that giddy height of the Cruz Alta, which looked from here as if an eagle alone might reach it.
Patient ox-teams toil19 along, led by small boys in black nightcaps, gravely courteous20 to the stranger, and black-eyed solemn children play soberly by the wayside and take no heed21. Soon we pass through the big, poor-looking village of Pampilhosa, and leave the pines and heather behind us; for here down in the valley olives, cork23 trees, ilex, and vines abound24, with figs25, pears, and apples, in orchards26 nestled round the white cottages. Aloe hedges, with the big, fleshy lancet leaves of silver-grey, show that 124we are in a sub-tropical land, and patches of succulent sugar-cane for cattle fodder27 grow brilliantly green against the maize28 and millet29 fields; whilst all along the wayside the light-leafed poplars rear their straight shafts30, heavily burdened by masses of purple grapes and flaming vine leaves, the only sign of autumn, though October is now upon us.
As we near Coimbra, though it is not much past noon, we meet many groups of handsome country women, with, as usual, heavy burdens upon their heads, returning home from the weekly market in the city. Barefooted they go invariably, with their fine broad shoulders, full bosoms33, classical faces, and broad, low brows, their gay kerchiefs on head and bosom34, and their fine eyes gazing straight forth35 with modest dignity; and mentally I deny assent36 to the boast of Guimar?es that its maids and matrons reign37 supreme38 in buxom39 grace, for those of Coimbra need bow the head to none on earth. All around the city are gently rounded undulating hills covered by olive orchards, and as the road tops one of them we see the picturesque40 old capital beneath us upon its steep slope, the broad Mondego at its foot, and 125beyond the river a high green ridge crowned by an immense white convent.
In the ancient times, as the Christian41 monarchs42 wrested45 from the Moors47 one territory after another, and drove the Crescent ever farther south, the capital of Portugal followed the victorious49 standard, and Guimar?es soon had to cede50 its place to Coimbra, which remained the capital from the time of the first Affonso (Henriques) in the twelfth century until the extinction51 of his dynasty in the fourteenth, and occasionally later. Coimbra is crowded with memories of the heroic times, of combats with the Moors, and of deeds of violence and blood perpetrated within its walls; and in its quaint52 crowded streets are corners that can hardly have changed since the Affonsos and Sanchos here held their court—the Arco d’Almedina leading out of the principal street, Rua do Visconde da Luz, for instance, and the quaint renascence palace, incorrectly called the palace of the martyred Maria de Telles, in the Rua de Sub-Ripas.
But to the famed Church of Santa Cruz, all that remains53 intact of a vast Augustian monastery, the pilgrim’s steps first turn. It stands 126in an open place at the end of the Rua do Visconde da Luz, sunk several feet below the present level of the street, and the magnificent Manueline, or Portuguese54 renascence front is spoilt by a mean and hideous55 detached portico56, in front of the real doorway57, with its fine carved figures and capricious canopies58. The lower part of the octagonal tower is much damaged, and the delicately carved decorations destroyed; but enough remains of the upper part to prove the magnificence with which King Manuel in the beginning of the sixteenth century rebuilt the sepulchre of the earliest kings. In this church, of which the interior, lined with pictorial59 blue tiles, is now reduced to eighteenth-century aridity60, with the exception of the roof and chancel where the magnificent tombs with recumbent figures of Affonso Henriques and his son, King Sancho, shame the tastelessness of the later work, a dramatic scene was once enacted62. Both these first kings of Portugal had worn the habit of St. Augustine, and were lay members of this monastery where their bones were laid. In order to establish his right to the patronage63 of the foundation, King Manuel, in 1510, rebuilt the church and monastery 127in the exuberant65 and gorgeous style associated with his reign; and when the time came to restore the bodies of the kings to the new sepulchres prepared for them, Manuel caused the mummified corpse66 of Affonso Henriques to be clad in royal robes and kingly crown, enthroned before the high altar of Santa Cruz, and there receive the homage67 of his subjects as if still alive. The pulpit of the church, the work of Jean de Rouen, though stripped now of its side pilasters and famous canopy68, is one of the most splendid examples of early French renascence; but the richest treasure of the church is a splendid early triptych, in the mysterious style of the so-called Gran Vasco (who is a mythical69 painter), in which the early Flemings are imitated exactly by apparently70 Portuguese hands. This triptych, which should be compared with the “Fountain of Life” described in the chapter on Oporto, and also with the famous “St. Peter” at Vizeu, is signed “Vellascus,” and represents in its three panels the “Ecce Homo,” the “Calvary” and the “Pentecost,” with the exquisite finish and glowing colour of Van Eyck and Memling. The cloisters73 of the church are a beautiful specimen74, as is much of the exterior75 128of the church itself, of the peculiar76 Manueline renascence Gothic, of which I have so frequently spoken, the motives77 being the capricious intertwining of cordage and branches, spiral bossed mouldings, exuberant pinnacles78, and pendent floreated ornaments79 on the interior lines of arches and vaultings. Of this style the Bussaco palace-hotel is a notable modern specimen, and in a later chapter I propose to treat in some detail the other examples inspected during my trip. By the side of Santa Cruz, separated from it by a road formerly81 spanned by a high bridge, lies a splendid massive tower, and a huge block of the old monastic buildings now turned into a squalid barrack, so often the fate of the profanated religious houses in Portugal, whilst behind the church and cloister72 lies another large portion also turned to secular82 uses.
A STREET IN COIMBRA.
Coimbra is famous as the seat of learning for all Portugal—for many centuries, and still, the only university town in the realm. The huge square bulk of the university buildings on the crest83 of the hill overlooking the town typify the absolute domination of the place by the academical tradition. The hotel on the Alameda, 129like other hostelries of its sort, has no lack of commercial customers, but even they, assertive84 as they are, are swamped by the university professors, staff and graduates, who flock to its tables for their meals; whilst in the streets bookshops jostle each other all filled with text-books, and the unmistakable students are everywhere. And yet, with all this academical presence, there is none of that staid atmosphere of aloof85 erudition which is especially noticeable at Cambridge, and, to a lesser86 degree, at Oxford87. It is true that the youngsters at Coimbra affect a garb88 at which the present-day undergraduate at Cambridge would scoff89, if he did not proceed to more violent means to reduce its primness90. A very clerical-looking black frock-coat, buttoned to the chin, is de rigueur, covered by a long black cloak reaching to the wearer’s heels, although, to tell the truth, this cloak, like a Cambridge third-year man’s gown, is oftener festooned over one shoulder or trailed along upon the arm than worn decorously as intended.
These Coimbra youths wear no head covering, and affect a gravity of demeanour whilst in the streets that gives them all the appearance of budding priests. But the absence of a collegiate 130system brings both staff and students into more direct contact with the town than is the case with our older universities, and the peculiar learned atmosphere of the High at Oxford or King’s Parade at Cambridge does not exist. It is a stiff climb up the hill to the university, and the cathedrals. The former is built round three sides of a large court, with a tower in one corner and an observatory91 in the open face, the enormous palace of the rector occupying one entire side of the square. Seven good light classrooms and a fine hall, senate-house, and examination rooms, give ample accommodation; and the view of the city from the end of the corridor containing the lecture-rooms is exceedingly fine. The library is a gorgeous gilt92 and over-decorated room in the florid taste of the eighteenth century, the worst possible style for a place of quiet study; and almost the only attractive feature in the exterior of the university is the fine Manueline doorway to the chapel93 in the great quadrangle. Here twisted cables, rich mouldings, floreated crockets and pinnacles, armillary spheres and crosses, the usual notes of the style, mark the work as being of the period when Portugal was ebullient94 with feverish95 energy and ambition.
131Hard by is the bishop’s palace, now almost a ruin, but with some lovely bits of Manueline, and a delightful96 sixteenth-century courtyard like a scene upon the stage. The old cathedral (Sé Velha) upon the same hill, is perhaps the most perfect and unspoilt specimen of pure Romanesque of the twelfth century in the Peninsula. The deeply recessed97 west door, with round arch, quadruple ball mouldings, finely decorated Byzantine Romanesque pillars, and a large, recessed window in the same style above, occupy a square projecting battlemented tower flanked on each side by other square towers at the corners. On the south side the early renascence door reaching to the battlemented roof of the aisle99 is practically in ruins; but the pure, solid Romanesque of the rest of the building stands sturdy as ever after eight centuries. Small and grave, the nave100 and aisles101, with the beautiful round-headed, recessed clerestory windows and capricious Romanesque Byzantine capitals, remain unmarred, though gilt and alabaster103 altars and chapels104 clamour for notice, and splendid sarcophagi of bishops105 and nobles on all sides contrast with the stern lines of the original building. Two features of the more recent periods deserve 132attention, the truly superb high-altar of Flemish workmanship of the first years of the sixteenth century, and the circular chapel of the Soares family, dated 1566. I could not tear myself away from the contemplation of the exterior of this old Sé on the hill over Coimbra, and at night when the darkness of the ancient city was hardly disturbed by flickering106 lamps, I lingered in the square around the battlemented walls and sturdy towers, reconstructing the scenes that had been enacted here, and calling up in imagination from their eternal sleep those great ones who rested so quietly within.
The new cathedral (Sé Nova) is a plain and ugly pseudo-classical building, in the so-called Jesuit style, standing on the summit of the hill, and only merits notice on account of its treasures. These form a veritable museum of early ecclesiastical art, from the twelfth century onward107. I have rarely seen a finer specimen of goldsmith’s work than the custode of George d’Almeida, of pure Portuguese Gothic, in a similar style, but more imposing108 than the chalice109 already described at the Misericordia at Oporto.
Looking across the beautiful river Mondego from the acacia-shaded alameda where stands 133the hotel, the high wooded ridge straight opposite is crowned by the vast white convent of Santa Clara, once the glory of Coimbra and the cloister of queens, now partly destroyed and partly desecrated110 and turned into a factory. The heat was oppressive on the morning after my arrival at Coimbra, but a pilgrimage to the shrine111 of Saint Isabel the Queen, and to the shrine of love near to it, could not be foregone. Crossing the bridge I first wended my way to a beautiful villa22 almost on the banks of the river, in whose grounds there stands the Gothic ruin of a palace, and adjoining it gushing112 from a rock shaded by dark cedars113 a copious114 spring leaps joyously115 along a stone channel of some twenty feet long into a stone tank covered with water lilies. It is a lovely tranquil116 spot, where no sound reaches but the rustling117 of leaves and the gurgling of crystal water, and yet here, tradition says, was enacted in the long ago one of those tragedies that inspire poets, painters, and dramatists for all time. It was in 1355, and Ines de Castro, the lovely mistress of the Prince Dom Pedro, had so infatuated him that he refused to marry another at his father’s bidding. The King, Alfonso IV., incensed118 at the recalcitrancy 134of his heir, caused Ines to be done to death here beside the “Fountain of Love” by three courtiers. The son, Dom Pedro, rose in rebellion, and saw his father no more; but when two years afterwards the king died and Pedro succeeded him, he worked his ghastly revenge upon those who had persecuted119 his beloved. Ines had been buried at Santa Clara, the convent near, to which this estate belonged, and now her body was disinterred, dressed in royal robes, crowned with a diadem120 and adorned121 with jewels, and placed, a crumbling122 corpse, thus arrayed upon a throne in the monastery-Church of Alcoba?a, whilst all the courtiers upon their knees kissed the dead hand of her whom they had insulted and contemned123 in life. Upon a stone by the side of the fountain this verse of Cam?es is inscribed:—
“As filhas do Mondego morte escura,
Longo tempo124 chorando morar?o:
E por memoria eterna em fonte pura
As lagrimas choradas transformar?o,
O nome e reputa??o que inda dura
Dos amores de Ignes que ali pasar?o
Vede que fresca fonte rega as flores
Que lagrimas s?o agua, e o nome amores.”
“The fountain of love in the garden of tears” is the spot called to this day, and a crumbling 135little Gothic convent founded by the lover king between this and the river bears the name of “the convent of tears.”
Above us gleams the long white building of Santa Clara, and zigzagging125 up the steep hill lies the path, shrines127 at each turn of the way inviting128 to devotion and to rest. The sun beats fiercely on the steep white road, but the view from the summit upon the esplanade that faces the convent church repays the trouble of the climb. Opposite, across the river, the city is piled up upon its grand amphitheatre of hills, the huge, square bulk of the university and the Sé Nova topping it all; whilst beyond the rolling hills covered with olives provide a dark-green background, which throws into higher relief the blue, white, and pink houses grouped in the limpid129 air, under a cloudless sky, flooded with sunlight.
Of all the rich foundation of the royal convent of Santa Clara all that now remains devoted130 to religious uses is the white church, and the adjoining sanctuary131 of the saintly queen, tended by ladies dedicated132 to charitable work, but not cloistered133. The church is mainly of the seventeenth century, in the usual “Jesuit” style, and is crowded with gilt and carved woodwork; a large stately, 136unencumbered interior, containing several sarcophagi of members of the royal house, and the rich treasure in the sacristy must on no account be missed. A turret134 stair at the west end leads into a small loft135 overlooking the church, and richly, but sombrely decorated. Here stands a little altar, and on lifting a trap in the centre of it, and peering down through a grating a most impressive scene is presented to the view. A large, solemn choir136-chamber137, with carved stalls in rows, extending lengthwise along it, and the ample central space occupied by a magnificent canopy, under which, lit by a tiny red lamp burning eternally before it, lies a great coffin138 of rich repoussé silver, in which there rests the body of the sainted queen, the patron of Coimbra, the heroic Aragonese princess, who in 1323, rode between the armies of her husband, King Diniz, and their rebellious139 son, and stayed their unnatural140 strife141 at her own great peril142.
SANTA CLARA, COIMBRA.
One other royal shade at least haunts the royal convent of Santa Clara. Here, retired143 from the turmoil144 of ambitions and wrongs, of which through her youth she had been the victim, passed the long years of her devout145 renunciation that injured Princess Joan, “the Beltraneja,” daughter of 137Henry IV. of Castile, whom the great Isabel the Catholic ousted146 from her inheritance. Here in Coimbra, too, the tragedy of Maria de Telles, subject of poems and plays innumerable, was enacted in real life. King Ferdinand the Handsome, about 1371, though betrothed147 to a Castilian princess, fell in love with a lady called Leonor de Telles, and so endangered the recently concluded alliance. His people rose in revolt, and the lady’s family, especially her sister Maria, resented the adulterous connection. Leonor, secure in her mastery over the king, wreaked148 a terrible revenge upon those who opposed her; poison, the dagger149, and the dungeon150 doing her fell work, until all Portugal was in fear at her feet, and the king became her wedded151 husband. The virtuous152 sister, Maria de Telles, happily married to the king’s half-brother, Jo?o, and safe in her palace at Coimbra, was difficult to attack. But the wicked Leonor was equal to the occasion, and, like a female Iago, instilled153 into the ears of the prince suspicions of his wife’s fidelity154, and with forged evidence prompted him to revenge. The enraged155 husband murdered his protesting and innocent wife in cold blood at Coimbra (but not at the house now shown as 138the scene of the tragedy), and as soon as the foul156 deed was done Queen Leonor, who had been waiting in an adjoining room, entered, and, in the presence of the murdered Maria, mocked at the husband’s pain, and showed him that her sister was innocent. The prince in his rage attempted to murder the treacherous157 queen, but was seized, and subsequently escaped into exile, whilst Leonor lived to perpetrate other misdeeds.
I paced the acacia-shaded alameda as the sun sank below the hills, thinking of these sad memories of the times long past; of the noble self-sacrifice of the sainted queen, of the long agony of the Beltraneja, and of the blood-stained soul of Leonor. The air was cool and fresh, and the glowing sunset faded from crimson158 to dead rose in the west; but across the shimmering160 river the after-glow, like a luminous161 opal dawn, threw up the black silhouette162 of the wooded ridge, and the vast bulk of Santa Clara on the crest stood sharp and clear as if cut out of black velvet163 and laid upon pearly satin. And just over the great convent church a star of dazzling brilliancy—the brightest star, it seemed to me, I have ever beheld—blazed out alone in the pellucid164 sky, and tipped with diamond the cross above the 139silent silver shrine with its dim red lamp burning through the centuries. Thus sweet self-sacrifice conquers over time and death. The mouldering165 bones are naught166, darkness enshrouds even the huge building in which they lie; yet far aloft the cross still stands distinct above all, gemmed167 with its glittering star, as the eternal memory of good deeds done still illumines the blackness of the world.
The next morning I took the train for Ch?o de Ma??s, a little roadside station, where a carriage had been ordered to meet me, and carry me two leagues over the mountains to Thomar. There was some stay at Pombal, where it was a feast day, and the peasant costumes were seen at their best—good upstanding people these, gaily168 clad, sober, and orderly, coming to the railway stations in good time and unhurried, but not hours before the train starts, as the peasants do in Spain. In the market, under the shadow of the great medi?val castle ruins on the hill, they do their buying and selling, live-stock for the most part to-day, without vociferation, but with an earnest quietness which is as far as possible from depression. Here at Pombal, and at Albergaria near, the men wear brown undyed homespun jackets, 140and trousers girt with red sashes. The bag cap is almost universal, and mutton-chop whiskers are the rule, but what will attract a foreign visitor most in their dress are the curious triple-caped ulsters, made of layers of grass, seen in many places in Portugal in wet weather, but especially in this neighbourhood. These garments, bulky as they look, are not heavy, and are an excellent protection against heavy rain.
The women here have very full, short, gathered skirts, and though none of them wear shoes or stockings hardly any are without heavy ancient jewelry169 of gold filigree170 apparently of considerable value. The bodices of the dresses are mostly red or yellow, and a broad horizontal stripe of bright colour often enlivens the skirt also, their brilliant head-kerchiefs being usually topped by a broad-brimmed velveteen hat, for the pork-pie hat of the north has been left behind now.
We had mounted into the country of pines and heather when we stopped at the little station of Ch?o de Ma??s, dumped down, as it seemed, in the wilderness171 with just a row of one-storey whitewashed172 cottages opposite. But where was the carriage? None had been heard of there, and I found myself several miles from anywhere, 141and with no means of conveyance173. Sympathetic interest was not wanting. A muleteer loudly deplored174 that he was engaged to carry a load of goods to Ourem, and could not take me to Thomar. Clearly something must be done, however; so the little meeting of grave consultants175 adjourned176 from the station platform to the door of the humble177 general shop and tavern178 opposite to continue the important discussion. It happened that the whole village was just then deeply absorbed in witnessing an itinerant179 barber cutting a man’s hair in an open stable whilst the onlookers180 criticised and suggested improvements and variations in the process; but when the news spread that a strange gentleman was stranded181 at Ch?o de Ma??s with no conveyance to take him to Thomar, the critics of the barber’s art adjourned en masse to the tavern, and respectfully joined in the discussion as to my fate. They were quite unanimous in agreeing that the Senhor Mathias Araujo, the hotelkeeper at Thomar, could not have received the letter or he would certainly have sent the carriage, of that there could be no doubt whatever. But oh! that correio, the post, was always at fault; and then many anecdotes182 were given at great length of hairbreadth 142escapes and heavy losses incurred183 by the sins and omissions184 of the Portuguese post-office. All this was no doubt interesting, but not helpful to me in my quandary185, and I gently led the talk again to the chance of my getting a conveyance. The outlook was not hopeful, but the sympathetic muleteer somewhat doubtfully suggested to the innkeeper that some one near had a pair of mules186. A significant look passed round, but the hint was not lost upon me, and by dint187 of much diplomacy188 a rapaz was sent off for the mules. He returned by-and-by with an excellent-looking pair of animals, and an ancient shandrydan was pulled out of a stable. I wondered what had caused the hesitation189, but my wonder did not last long. No sooner were the mules hitched190 to the bar than they began to kick furiously. Kicking chains were of little use; the lout191 who drove the team used his whip with heart and arm, the pieced and spliced192 rope and chain harness was strained almost to breaking, and the ancient “machine” threatened every moment to disintegrate193 into splinters.
A COUNTRY RAILWAY STATION.
And so the team kicked their hardest all the seven miles to Thomar, and performed the distance, as it seemed to me, in one continued 143gymnastic exercise, more on their fore-legs than on their full complement194 of limbs. But kicking mules were powerless to mar32 the delight of the drive. The road was a perfect one, over hills covered with pines and dales ablaze195 with purple heather. The cool mountain breeze, laden196 with the scent48 of wild thyme, brought with it a new sense of delight which made breathing a conscious enjoyment197, and the jaded198 elderly person in the shivering shandrydan felt impelled199 to shout aloud in mere200 exhilaration of living in such an atmosphere. Only a three weeks before I had seen Deeside at its best, but Deeside heather was dull, and the Deeside pine-clad hills in their wreaths of clouds were depressing, in comparison with this sparkling sweep of sandy moor46 and mountain.
Turning the shoulder of the highest ridge we came in sight of the vast and beautiful valley below us with Thomar in its midst upon its river bank nestling in greenery, with its steep, abrupt201 hill and castle standing sentinel over it. It was Sunday, and, although broad daylight when I drove into Thomar, a flight of rockets rushed into the air from the town-hall, and the braying202 of a brass203 band told me that the town was en fête. It was, I learnt, 144the ceremony of prize-giving and treating the school children by the town council, and all the little ones, clean, chubby204, and well-clad they looked, were trooping, shouting, and cheering, as children do the world over. I found a warm welcome at the Hotel Uni?o, and was soon convinced that the Ch?o de Ma??s meeting was right in their assurance that the failure to send the carriage was from no fault of the host, a gentleman of cultured manners and tastes, quite unlike the ordinary type of Portuguese innkeeper. He was distressed205 to have received no letter to advise him of my coming, as he ought to have done two days before, but an hour or two afterwards he rushed into my room, excited and triumphant206. He had forced them to open the post-office, Sunday though it was, and had rescued my letter from a heap which some careless postman had neglected to deliver! Thenceforward Senhor Jose Mathias Araujo, a pattern of Portuguese hotelkeepers, was indefatigable207 in making me, a mere passing stranger though I was, of whose name he had only heard vaguely208, feel at home and comfortable at Thomar.
A CORNER OF THE TOWN HALL AND THE CONVENT, THOMAR.
The place is one which to my latest days I shall never forget. A clean little rectangular 145town with straight streets of singularly modern aspect, on the banks of an exquisitely209 beautiful stream fringed by trees and gardens. The shops for the most part are but doorways210 open upon the street, for they have not adopted the modern fashion of windows for the display of goods. And life in general seems to pass drowsily211, for with the exception of a small factory in some ancient conventual buildings on the farther bank of the stream, there is not much doing in the place.
But the object of my coming to this sweet, dull, little town pervades212 it everywhere. At the end of the three straight streets running from the river to the square market-place, with its ancient church and town-hall, there looms214 upon a steep hill, right up over the roofs as it seems, the most splendid and interesting medi?val castle-monastery in this land of hill-top strongholds—the ancient fortress215 headquarters of the crusading knights216 of the Order of Christ, successors in Portugal of the Templars. Thomar was the metropolis217 and fief of the Order, and on all sides the emblem218 of their peculiar cross is evident. Impressed upon my mind for ever is the view as I first gazed upon it from the 146main street (of course, incongruously called now after Serpa Pinto) on the sparkling autumn day. Clear and sharp high up on the hill against the indigo219 sky stood a ruined bell tower through whose gaping220 window the light shone, with tall, pointed221 cypresses222 by its side, and flanked by a mighty223 stretch of warm, grey battlements, above which rose the bulk of a great square keep.
A zigzag126 path leads from behind the sixteenth-century town-hall in the pra?a up the rocky sides of the precipitous hill. Gnarled olive trees, dwarf224 oaks, and aloes grew in the crevices225 and amidst the ruins of outer walls upon the face of the declivity226; and the outer donjon, still standing unwrecked across the path, shows the tremendous strength even of these exterior defences. Above these loomed227 the Titanic228 walls, their battlemented sides and turrets229, all stained a golden yellow with the lichen230 that covered them. The inner donjon, which adjoins the picturesque ruined bell tower, gives entrance to a charming grassy231 garden with tall cypresses, orange trees, and gay flowers, growing in what was once the wide courtyard of the castle; and the huge square main keep standing in the midst, all dismantled232 as it is, rears its flame-tinged battlements as proudly as when the soldiers of the Cross held this isolated233 stronghold against the hordes234 of Islam. The walls are everywhere pierced with loopholes in the shape of a cross surmounting235 a globe, and the cruciform device of the Order is graven upon stones on all sides.
SOME BEAUTIES OF THOMAR.
147Connected with the walls of the ancient castle, and upon a somewhat higher level than the keep, there stands the high round church of the Templars, with buttresses236 of immense strength reaching to the parapet, and a crumbling square bell tower upon one of its faces. Upon an ancient slab237 let into the sides of the church an inscription238 tells how Dom Affonso, first King of Portugal, and Gualdrim Paes, master of the Portuguese Templars, constructed this edifice239 in 1108. Joined to this ancient structure is one of the most astounding240 specimens241 of Manueline architecture in Portugal, built in the early sixteenth century, when all the country was pulsating242 with new life and eager longings243. It is the choir and chapter-house, and behind them is the ruin of the great monastery of the Order of Christ. Words are weak to convey an idea of 148the capricious splendour of the choir and chapter-house so far as they remain undefaced, for later ages have done their best to spoil the edifice. Eight cloisters have been built around it, and tacked244 on to it, by the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Its lovely Manueline doorway has been marred102, and the east end of the building blocked as high as its upper windows by the “Cloister of the Philips.”
The Choir and Chapter-House, Thomar.
But notwithstanding all the vandalism, enough of the Manueline building remains intact to strike the beholder245 with reverent246 wonder at the intricate beauty of the work, and the inexhaustible invention of the design. The doorway stands in a recess98 reaching to the parapet, and enclosed within an arch of surprising beauty, of which the under curve is lined with an elaborate pendent ornament80. Within the recess filling the whole space and over the door itself, figures in niches247 stand under canopies and upon pillars in which caprice and intricacy surpass themselves. Coiled cables, bossed spirals, floreated pinnacles, armillary spheres, crosses, and intertwined branches, stand out in high relief and under cut, as if the sculptors248 had purposely sought difficulties in order to overcome them. 149The arch of the door itself is beyond description, so luxuriant is the design of the chiselled249 stone which forms the three grooves250 and two spiral pilasters around it. The parapet of the whole edifice is similarly rich, alternating the cross of the Order with the armillary sphere; and although most of the lower part of the walls is hidden, the view of the east end with its two corner towers, as seen from the roof of the adjoining cloister, is magnificent. The lower window, which lights the interior of the choir, is a massive tangle251 of outstanding cables; each point being crowned by the cross and the armillary sphere which formed the device of the grand master, the famous Prince Henry the Navigator. Around one of the corner towers a great chain cable, each link carved entire in stone, is braced252, and around the other an equally tremendous buckled253 belt, representing the Order of the Garter, which the Prince, a Plantagenet on his mother’s side, possessed254. The upper window which lights the chapter-house is more suggestive still. It is a highly decorated circular light bevilled into the deep thickness of the wall, and represents upon the sloping inner face of the 150circle a series of bulging255 staysails, each held down by a rope.
But all this description in detail is incapable256 of conveying an idea of the richness of effect produced by the whole work. The exuberance257 of the style and its tricky258 capriciousness may be, and are, condemned259 by purists as in questionable260 taste; but as an outcome of national feeling, and as an example of original inventive ingenuity261 and patience, this and other notable specimens of the style, to which reference will be made later, are of the highest interest to the student, and a delight to the ordinary observer who can free himself from the straightlaced traditions of the schools.
Inside the grave old round church of the Templars, to which this gorgeous edifice was to serve as a choir for the warrior262 monks263 of Christ, a fine Byzantine altar stands in the centre. The interior of the edifice itself is a quaint and curious mixture of Byzantine, Moorish264, Romanesque, and Gothic, the pillars being painted and gilt in oriental taste, whilst the splendid canopy over the central altar is pure Gothic, and dated 1500. In four of the eleven arched spaces upon the wall of the circular church there are some 151ancient pictures of the highest interest, the remaining seven having been stolen by the French invaders265 in the Napoleonic wars. The paintings are fine enough to be by the hand of Jan Van Eyck himself, and are, as usual, ascribed by Portuguese to the mythical Gran Vasco. It is far more likely, however, that they may be the work of a painter called Jean Dralia of Bruges, who was living in this monastery at the end of the fifteenth century, and is buried here. It is lamentable266 to see the condition to which these masterpieces have been allowed to fall from sheer want of care; and unless they are promptly267 rescued, a few years more will complete their ruin.
The great choir, added on to the round church, presents in its interior the same wealth of fancy as that already described on the outside; but the wonderful choir stalls of the Manueline period were stolen or destroyed during the French invasion. As I stood under the exquisitely carved ceiling of this choir, looking towards the Byzantine altar in the round church before me, my mind flew back to a scene enacted here in April 1581, which I had more than once endeavoured to describe in writing 152without having seen the place. Philip II. had followed in the devastating268 steps of Alba to wrest44 from the native Portuguese pretender the crown he coveted269. Portugal had sullenly270 bent61 its neck to the yoke271, and the nobles had either been exiled or bought to the side of the Spaniard. But one thing more was needed to make grim Philip legally King of Portugal as well as King of Spain. The Portuguese Cortes, elected of the people, though in this case elected with Alba’s grip upon its throat, had to swear allegiance to the new monarch43, and Philip had to pledge his oath to respect the rights and liberties of his new subjects. The stronghold of the Knights of Christ at Thomar was chosen by the Spaniard for the crowning act of Portuguese national subjection; and here Philip arrived on the 15th March 1581. On the 3rd April, in one of those charming little letters to his orphan272 daughters, he wrote from Thomar saying that the Cortes would sit soon, for many people were already arriving, and the oaths would be taken as soon as they were met. “You have heard,” he says, “that they insist upon my dressing273 in brocade, much against my will, but they say it is the custom here.”
153On the 16th of April the church of the monastery was aglow274 with shimmer159 of gold and gems275 and rich stuffs. Under a dais at the end of this choir Philip sat in a robe of cloth of gold over a dress of crimson brocade; though his heart was sad for the death of his last wife, and he hated splendour in his broken old age. After mass had been said, the Cortes did homage and swore to keep their faith to him as king; and then stepping down from the throne, he advanced to the high altar and solemnly pledged his word to respect the laws and liberties of Portugal. How little he relished276 the splendour is seen in a letter he sent to his girls from Thomar a fortnight later, as soon as he could find time to write to those whom he loved more dearly than any other creatures on earth. “How much I wish,” he wrote, “you could have seen the ceremony of taking the oath from a window as my nephew [the Archduke Albert] did, who saw everything excellently. But I send you a full account of it all.... I have given the Golden Fleece to the Duke of Braganza, and he went with me to mass, both of us wearing the collar of the Order; which upon my mourning looked very bad, and I can 154tell you he looked much smarter than I did, although they say that the day of the oath was the first time he had worn low shoes, though everybody is wearing them here now except myself.” Thomar, for the last time in its existence, was a blaze of splendour for those six feverish weeks; for Spanish and Portuguese nobles, jealous of each other, vied in lavish277 expenditure278; and then the fortress of the Knights was left to its solitude279: gradually royal encroachments stripped the Order of its wealth and power, and Thomar lived in memory alone.
The upper chamber of the Manueline building over the choir is the chapter-house of the Order of Christ. A grand, low, pillared hall, with the twisted cables and the repeated cross and sphere, testifying once more to the reigning280 idea of the period of the Navigator Grand-Master. Here it was that the Portuguese Cortes sat to confirm the religious act of allegiance to Philip, and set the seal of subservience281 upon the nation for nearly a century. Every carved stone and crocket has a story to tell if we could but hear it. Here in the older monastic building the Navigator himself held his chapters, dwelling282 in the adjoining palace, in the intervals283 of his 155life-task upon his eyrie at Sagres; here in the “cloisters of the Philips,” dull Philip III. held his monastic court upon his one visit to Portugal; and the magnificent cloister of John III. testifies to the classical reaction after the exuberance of the times of his father Dom Manuel.
In the quaint little Gothic cloister around the burial-place of the monks, called the “Cloister of Dom Henrique,” a strange sight is to be seen in the upper ambulatory. Baltasar de Faria was the instrument of Philip II. in forcing the Spanish form of Inquisition ruthlessly upon Portugal, and in cruelty surpassed his master. So bitterly hated was he that the saying ran that earth itself would reject and refuse to assimilate the body of such a monster. In the lid of a stone coffin in the cloister a pane71 of glass is set, and he who will may gaze and see how Baltasar de Faria looks now. He was a splendid courtier in his time, and doubtless a gallant-looking one too, for it was a sumptuous284 age; but the poor gentleman’s looks have now little to recommend them, as he lies contorted and mummified but perfect in his narrow home, to be gazed and wondered at by those who list—a scoff for the ribald, a text for the moralist.
156More there was, much more, to describe in this wonderful monastery, but I have said more than enough to prove that the visitor to Portugal who misses Thomar has failed to see a relic285, which, in its way, has hardly an equal in Europe. The drives around Thomar are exquisitely beautiful, the view from the hill across the river embracing the monastery and the great white sanctuary of the Misericordia, with its long scala sacra, upon the twin hill, being one never to be forgotten. Just outside the town, hard by an ancient pillar marking the junction286 place of the armies which won for a second time the independence of Portugal from Spain (at Aljubarrota, 1385), there stands the beautiful old church of Santa Maria, a perfect Gothic fane; and close to its west end a strong tower built as a place of refuge for its constructors against the constant attacks of the Moors. Much I should like to linger upon Thomar: upon the quaint garb of the peasants, the picturesque bits of the old Manueline church of St. Jo?o in the pra?a, upon the lovely private gardens by the side of the stream, upon the noble aqueduct, and upon the sweet tranquillity287 of the acacia-shaded walks; but I dare not delay further, for the carriage is at the door of the humble though hospitable288, Hotel Uni?o, to carry me on this brilliant morning the twenty-five miles to Leiria, where I must pass the night. As we drove clear of the town the loveliness of its situation came home to one with more intensity289 than ever. The peaceful stream winding290 through the plain, its course marked by a continuous line of poplars, the pine-clad hills all around—miles away but in this clear air seeming within touching291 distance of the hand—the cluster of white and pink houses with red roofs, and, almost sheer above them, the two hills, one crowned by its never-to-be-forgotten monastery-castle with its long battlemented walls, its high keep, and, most striking of all, its gaunt bell tower, with its guard of tall cypresses; whilst climbing up the gentler green slope of the other hill is the snow-white scala sacra of twenty-five flights of steps leading to the gleaming sanctuary of the Misericordia. Above all a sky of deep luminous blue, and pervading292 all the soft warm air, sweet with the scent of thyme, basil, cistus, and pines.
CHURCH OF ST. JO?O IN THE PRA?A, THOMAR.
157Thus, for two hours or more, I drove over a good road, winding round the foot of rising hills, and following the sinuosity of fertile valleys, 158above me grey boulders293, around me pines, olives, and sweeps of flowering heather on the red earth. At length, afar off, there loomed a bolder hill than the rest, rising abruptly294 and crowned by another great fortress, as it seemed at an unscalable height, with a cluster of ancient houses nestled just beneath it. Patience and a scarped road on the hillside, however, enabled us to reach without apparent difficulty half up the hill to the modern village of Ourem, where a rest for the horses and a meal for myself had been agreed upon. The place was dead, basking295 in the hot sunshine, all the village, as it seemed, baked to the uniform yellowish-white colour of the soil of the hill upon which it stood. The gaunt yellow castle above[1] softened296 only by the verdure of a crown of pines, and just below its walls the ancient town and a great monastery of long ago.
THE BRIDGE AT THOMAR.
159The hostelry was humble enough, but a chatty, shrewd-looking, old lady provided an excellent luncheon297 for me in an upper room, and became charmingly friendly when I praised her wine, of which she was very proud, and with reason, grown, as she told me, in the vineyard at the back of the house, and as good a wine of its sort as I care to drink. She was equally pleased with the approval of her quince marmalade, and pressed no end of home-made confections upon her passing guest, whilst she kept repeating that “os senhores ingleses que veem sempre alab?o muito o nosso vinho;” for the approval of Englishmen in this country is always taken as fixing the final seal of excellence298 upon anything.
Outside in the main street of the town complete quiet reigned299 in the fierce sunshine of midday. Against the indigo sky the immense castle on its peak showed clear, as nothing is ever seen in our mist-laden atmosphere. A man passes, bearing a great boat-shaped basket piled with big black grapes, the bloom upon them still undisturbed; four cronies in black nightcaps and with long staves in their hands gossip in the parallelogram of black shadow thrown athwart the road by the church tower; and, by-and-by, 160three lithe300 damsels with bright yellow head-kerchiefs flowing as they walk, swing by joyously; then comes, painfully hobbling beneath a heavy burden of yellow gourds301, a barefooted old woman, and anon a man riding à la gineta, a pacing nag64 with brass-embossed harness, and great box stirrups. Then silence again for another half-hour, and this is life at Ourem.
Still through a land of pine and heather with beautiful little valleys full of vines, figs, and olives, we drove for two hours more, and, just as the black shadows began to lengthen302, we drove into the town of Leiria, the Calippo of the Romans, and for long the stronghold whence the Moors harried303 the advancing Christians304 to the north. It is a lovely place on the banks of the Liz, set in the midst of pine-clad hills, and the centre of a great agricultural district. Here, again, the two abrupt eminences305 that loom14 over the town are crowned respectively by the enormous medi?val stronghold and the religious house that for ever seems to keep it company—the sword and the cross, twin instruments of soldier and priest, to keep the people in subjection, both alike happily now superseded306, in Portugal at least, by more enlightened means.
IN THE MAIN STREET OF OUREM.
161I started soon after my arrival at the inn, where there was no particular temptation to remain, to scale the hill from which the castle frowned down upon the town. The townspeople seemed to care nothing for the vast ruin that to me was the one attraction of the place. No one cared to guide me up the steep. It was easy, they said, to find the way by following the path, and the castle ruins were open to all. So I started alone, and wound round the lower ascent307, finding myself at last on the side of the hill farthest from the town, and at a point from which the castle was apparently quite inaccessible308, as the ascent was almost a sheer precipice309. A couple of women and some children were in a field by the wayside, and from them I learnt that I should have taken another path, and have ascended310 on the opposite face of the hill. It was annoying, for the day was already declining, and I had other things to do on the morrow. Just then an officious urchin311 of twelve volunteered to show me a way he knew of by the side I was on, and rather than lose my opportunity I followed him across a ploughed field to the foot of the steep.
A rocky path aslant312 the hill amidst the undergrowth 162seemed to offer no great difficulty at first, and I began the climb. The path, if it can so be called, was continued by other slanting313 ascents314 more difficult than the first, but still intent only upon each next step, I scrambled315 on by the aid of tufts of esparto grass, until I became aware that the track had ended altogether, and that the farther ascent was apparently impossible. Not until then had I looked down, but when I did so I understood in a moment the peril in which I was. I stood at a height of some five hundred feet above the level, and descent by the way I had come was absolutely impossible. For the last hundred feet I had only scrambled up by the aid of occasional stones that afforded a momentary316 lodgment for the toe and by clutching tufts of grass, but these would not help me to descend3. The pine-needles that lay thick underfoot made the slope as slippery as ice, and I knew that if I attempted to retrace317 my steps I should certainly be dashed to pieces. The poor women below knew it too; for one was wringing318 her hands in horror, and had thrown her apron319 over her face to hide from her the coming catastrophe320, whilst the other was loudly bewailing, whilst she belaboured the head of the urchin who had been the cause 163of the trouble. For one moment panic seized me, but it was succeeded immediately by a cool wave of critical, speculative321 interest, as if another person’s life and not mine were at stake, as to the sporting chance of my ever being able to negotiate the hundred feet of sheer precipice that lay between me and the top. Each step achieved was a triumph, and my whole soul was concentrated upon the chances of the next being successful. Of course, the ascent had to be made by long zigzags322 on the face of the precipice, and again and again, as a stone slipped from beneath my foot or a frond323 of bracken yielded to my grasp, I gave myself up for lost. But I never glanced below, and the jagged and frowning battlements above me gradually drew nearer and nearer, until at last, I know not how, I stood beneath them, panting but safe, and then, looking from the giddy height to the field below, I saw quite a large group of peasants now, waving their black nightcaps, and shouting in token of rejoicing at my safety.
The great castle around me, built by King Diniz the Farmer, in the thirteenth century, upon the site of the Moorish stronghold, was of immense extent, and included ruins of residential324 164edifices of later medi?val times. As I saw it now it was a dream of beauty. The setting sun falling athwart its lichen-covered stones dyed them as red as blood. Within the vast crenellated walls two distinct castles stood, one the cyclopean early structure, and the other a lovely Gothic palace, whose ogival windows, pointed arches, and slender pillars were still graceful325 in decay. The dismantled chapel is exquisite, and if light had served or any intelligent guidance had been obtainable, the inscriptions326 in it would have been interesting. But the twilight327 was falling, and the magnificent view from the battlements over the town, the plain, and the mountains called to me.
THE CASTLE, LEIRIA.
It was a feast of loveliness to the eye. The golden light of the setting sun glorified328 the vast plain below me, with its silver river fringed by poplars winding through it for many a mile, and the hills in the distance clothed to the crests329 with lofty pines, black and solemn now in the fading light. On a hill adjoining that upon which I stood the great white Convent and Sanctuary of the Incarnation looks across at the crumbling castle that it has outlived; and, just below me, between the inner and outer defences of the 165stronghold, on a green grassy slope, some children are playing joyously. As I wander down the way, safe and easy on this side, through mighty donjons, and thick, tunnelled walls which have seen so many bloody330 sights and echoed so many dismal331 sounds, the very spirit of peace seems to pervade213 the place. Half-way down, leaning over one of the grim walls, was a beautiful peasant girl talking to her young lover, who stood at the foot, and cascading332 masses of purple flowers fell across the jagged stones here and there, giving the just touch of colour needed to perfect the scene. Past a quaint old desecrated church and the enormous monastery of St. Peter, now, like most of such places, a barrack, I tread the picturesque pra?a of the town again, and stroll along the fine avenue of planes and eucalyptus333 by the side of the river as the after-glow lights up the cliff and the castle with a pearly reflected glamour334. The hill from below is like that of Edinburgh, but apparently double as high, and the vast extent of the battlements is more evident than when seen on the summit. Huge buttresses of rock seem to sustain the curtain that connects the keep of the fortress with the Gothic palace, and everywhere the grey of the granite is covered 166with a patina335 of yellow lichen, and the crevices filled with yew336, aloes, and olives.
ON THE ALAMEDA, LEIRIA.
The next day was market-day at Leiria, and long before dawn the town was busy. This was by far the largest country market I saw in Portugal, and the gathering337 of peasantry the quaintest338 and most picturesque. The shops, particularly those in the mosaic339-paved pra?a, are mainly wholesale340 warehouses341 for the supply of village traders, and a very extensive distributing trade must be done. The town itself, on this occasion, was one vast emporium, and multitudes of people bargained from early morning till past midday in the acacia avenues under the brilliant dark-blue sky. A gay-looking crowd they were: for the costume here is quite distinct. The women invariably wear a velvet pork-pie hat over a yellow or red head-kerchief, of which the ends hang down the back, and the older women have full black cloaks with hoods342, whilst most of them have a broad band, some nine inches wide, of yellow cloth round the bottom of the skirt. The wares343 exposed for sale were infinite. In the pra?a great heaps of maize, grapes, potatoes, chestnuts344, and beans covered the mosaic pavement, whilst stalls displayed calicoes and 167cloths of vivid colours. Giant yellow gourds in high piles lined the footpath345, and elsewhere under the shade of the trees stacks of grass-fodder and maize-leaves for cattle stood. In another space heaps of salt, and long lines of stalls for the sale of salted sardines346 and salted pork, were followed by a score of temporary butchers’ shops. Then came stands for the sale of fresh fish, skate, sardines, and cod347, with the inevitable348 bacalhau; and farther on, spread upon the ground, were hundreds of homely crocks, red amphor?, slender and beautiful in shape, coarse household dishes gaudily349 decorated, and unglazed jars to keep water cool. Beneath a beautiful picturesque arcade350 of ancient arches in the pra?a women were seated before panniers piled with pears, figs, apples, melons, and grapes, such as Covent Garden might glory in; and hard by strings351 of garlic, onions, and eschalot claimed their purchasers. In a field by the side of the river long lines of oxen, horses, and asses31 were for sale, and men in red and green nightcaps, and trousers made of two or three different coloured cloths, soberly bargained for the beasts. Over all was the dark-blue arch of the sky, and the brilliant sun, tempered beneath the trees by the light-green of the acacia leaves: 168but what strikes most an observer who is familiar with the south, is the absence of vociferation and apparent excitement. There was no shouting, no pushing or quarrelling, and every transaction in the chaffering town seemed to be got through with serious deliberation. Even the cluster of gaily-dressed women around the stately sixteenth-century fountain adjoining the hotel, gossiped staidly, and the children playing beneath the trees were as grave as little judges. This is Leiria as I saw it on market-day; but long before sunset the country people trudged352 homeward again; the ox-wains carried away the produce and merchandise; the stalls and booths folded their canvas sides and disappeared, and the next morning Leiria resumed its habitual353 sleep, from which it awakens354 but once a week.
THE ENCARNA??O, LEIRIA.
1. I noted355 with interest that this castle of Ourem, and others of these vast hill-top strongholds, had the outer defences arranged similarly to those I have described in the chapter on the buried city of Citania; namely, that on the side of the hill, where attack was difficult or impracticable, the outer walls dipped far down the slope, whilst at the point where danger might be apprehended356 the three lines of circumvallation were comparatively close together. This arrangement of hill-top defences was evidently long pre-Roman in the Peninsula, and seems to have been adopted by the Romans and their Gothic successors.
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fleck
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| n.斑点，微粒 vt.使有斑点，使成斑驳 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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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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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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orchards
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fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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maize
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| n.玉米 | |
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millet
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| n.小米，谷子 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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39
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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40
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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41
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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42
monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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43
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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44
wrest
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| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
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45
wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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46
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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47
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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48
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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49
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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50
cede
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| v.割让，放弃 | |
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51
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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52
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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53
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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54
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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55
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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56
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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57
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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58
canopies
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| （宝座或床等上面的）华盖( canopy的名词复数 )； （飞行器上的）座舱罩； 任何悬于上空的覆盖物； 森林中天棚似的树荫 | |
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59
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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60
aridity
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| n.干旱，乏味；干燥性；荒芜 | |
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61
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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62
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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64
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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65
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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66
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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67
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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68
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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69
mythical
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|
| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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70
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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71
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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72
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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73
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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74
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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75
exterior
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|
| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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76
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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77
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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78
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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79
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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80
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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81
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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82
secular
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|
| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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83
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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84
assertive
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|
| adj.果断的，自信的，有冲劲的 | |
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85
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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86
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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87
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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88
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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89
scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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90
primness
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| n.循规蹈矩，整洁 | |
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91
observatory
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| n.天文台，气象台，瞭望台，观测台 | |
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92
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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93
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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94
ebullient
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| adj.兴高采烈的，奔放的 | |
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95
feverish
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|
| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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96
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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97
recessed
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| v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的过去式和过去分词 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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98
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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99
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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100
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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101
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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102
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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103
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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104
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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105
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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106
flickering
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|
| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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107
onward
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|
| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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108
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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109
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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110
desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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112
gushing
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|
| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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113
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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114
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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115
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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116
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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117
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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118
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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119
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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120
diadem
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| n.王冠，冕 | |
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121
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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122
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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123
contemned
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| v.侮辱，蔑视( contemn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
tempo
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| n.(音乐的)速度；节奏，行进速度 | |
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125
zigzagging
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| v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的现在分词 )；盘陀 | |
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126
zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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127
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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128
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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129
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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130
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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131
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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132
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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133
cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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135
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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136
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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137
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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138
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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139
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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140
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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141
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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142
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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143
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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144
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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145
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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146
ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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147
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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148
wreaked
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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150
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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151
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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153
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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155
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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156
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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157
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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158
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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159
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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160
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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161
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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162
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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163
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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164
pellucid
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| adj.透明的，简单的 | |
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165
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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166
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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167
gemmed
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| 点缀（gem的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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168
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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169
jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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170
filigree
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| n.金银丝做的工艺品；v.用金银细丝饰品装饰；用华而不实的饰品装饰；adj.金银细丝工艺的 | |
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171
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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172
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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174
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
consultants
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| 顾问( consultant的名词复数 )； 高级顾问医生，会诊医生 | |
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176
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
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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178
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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179
itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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180
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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181
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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182
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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183
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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184
omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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185
quandary
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| n.困惑，进迟两难之境 | |
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186
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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187
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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188
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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189
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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190
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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191
lout
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| n.粗鄙的人；举止粗鲁的人 | |
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192
spliced
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| adj.（针织品）加固的n.叠接v.绞接( splice的过去式和过去分词 )；捻接（两段绳子）；胶接；粘接（胶片、磁带等） | |
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193
disintegrate
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| v.瓦解，解体，（使）碎裂，（使）粉碎 | |
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194
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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195
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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196
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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197
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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198
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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199
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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200
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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201
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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202
braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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203
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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204
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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205
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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206
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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207
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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208
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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209
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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210
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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211
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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212
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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213
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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214
looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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215
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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216
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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217
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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218
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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219
indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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220
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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221
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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222
cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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223
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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224
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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225
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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226
declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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227
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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228
titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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229
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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230
lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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231
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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232
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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233
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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234
hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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235
surmounting
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| 战胜( surmount的现在分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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236
buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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237
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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238
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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239
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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240
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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241
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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242
pulsating
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|
| adj.搏动的，脉冲的v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的现在分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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243
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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244
tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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245
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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246
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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247
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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248
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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249
chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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250
grooves
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| n.沟( groove的名词复数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏v.沟( groove的第三人称单数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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251
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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252
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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253
buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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254
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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255
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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256
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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257
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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258
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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259
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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260
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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261
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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262
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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263
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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264
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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265
invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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266
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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267
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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268
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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269
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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270
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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271
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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272
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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273
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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274
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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275
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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276
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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277
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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278
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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279
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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280
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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281
subservience
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| n.有利，有益；从属（地位），附属性；屈从，恭顺；媚态 | |
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282
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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283
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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284
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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285
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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286
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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287
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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288
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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289
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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290
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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291
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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292
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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293
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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294
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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295
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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296
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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297
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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298
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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299
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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300
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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301
gourds
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| n.葫芦( gourd的名词复数 ) | |
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302
lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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303
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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304
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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305
eminences
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| 卓越( eminence的名词复数 )； 著名； 高地； 山丘 | |
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306
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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307
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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308
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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309
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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310
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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311
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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312
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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313
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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314
ascents
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| n.上升( ascent的名词复数 )；（身份、地位等的）提高；上坡路；攀登 | |
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315
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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316
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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317
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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318
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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319
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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320
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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321
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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322
zigzags
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| n.锯齿形的线条、小径等( zigzag的名词复数 )v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的第三人称单数 ) | |
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323
frond
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| n.棕榈类植物的叶子 | |
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324
residential
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| adj.提供住宿的；居住的；住宅的 | |
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325
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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326
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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327
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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328
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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329
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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330
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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331
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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332
cascading
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| 流注( cascade的现在分词 )； 大量落下； 大量垂悬； 梯流 | |
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333
eucalyptus
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| n.桉树，桉属植物 | |
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334
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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335
patina
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| n.铜器上的绿锈，年久而产生的光泽 | |
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336
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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337
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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338
quaintest
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| adj.古色古香的( quaint的最高级 )；少见的，古怪的 | |
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339
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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340
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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341
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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342
hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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343
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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344
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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345
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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346
sardines
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| n. 沙丁鱼 | |
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347
cod
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| n.鳕鱼；v.愚弄；哄骗 | |
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348
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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349
gaudily
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| adv.俗丽地 | |
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350
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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351
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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352
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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353
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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354
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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355
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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356
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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