Esther bade us a cordial farewell: Mrs. Curgenven, standing3 at the door of her serpentine4 shop, repeated the good wishes, and informed us that John and his boat had already started for Church Cove5. As we drove through the bright little Lizard Town, and past the Church of Landewednack, wondering if we should ever see either again, we felt quite sad.
But sentimental6 considerations soon vanished in practical alarms. Leaving the carriage and Charles at the nearest point to the Cove, we went down the steep descent, and saw John rocking in his boat, and beckoning7 to us with a bland8 and smiling countenance9. But between us and him lay a sort of causeway, of the very roughest rocks, slippery with sea-weed, and beat upon by waves—such waves! Yet clearly, if we meant to get into the boat at all, we must seize our opportunity and jump in between the flux10 and reflux of that advancing tide.
I am not a coward: I love boats, and was well used to them in my youth, but now—my heart misgave11 me. There were but two alternatives—to stop the pleasure of the whole party, and leave Cornwall with these wonderful sea-caves unseen, or to let my children go alone. Neither was possible; so I hailed a sturdy youth at work hard by, and asked him if he would take charge of an old lady across the rocks. He grinned from ear to ear, but came forward, and did his duty manfully and kindly12. My young folks, light as feathers, bounded after; and with the help of John Curgenven, chivalrous14 and careful as ever, we soon found ourselves safely in the boat.
Safe, but not quite happy. "Here we go up, up, up, and here we go down, down, down," was the principle of our voyage, the most serious one we ever took in an open boat with a single pair of oars15. Never did I see such waves,—at least, never did I float upon them, in a boat that went tossing like a bit of cork16 out into the open sea.
John seemed not to mind them in the least. His strong arms swept the boat along, and he still found breath to talk to us, pointing out the great gloomy cliffs we were passing under, and telling us stories of wrecks17, the favourite theme—and no wonder.
This sunshiny morning that iron-bound coast looked awful enough; what must it have looked like, on the winter night when the emigrant19 ship Brest went down!
"Yes, it was about ten o'clock at night," said John. "I was fast asleep in bed, but they knocked me up; I got on my clothes and was off in five minutes. They are always glad enough to get us fishermen, the coastguard are. Mine was the first boat-load we brought ashore20; we would only take women and children that time. They were all in their night-gowns, and they couldn't speak a word of English, but we made them understand somehow. One woman threw her three children down to me, and stayed behind on the wreck18 with two more."
"Were the women frightened?"
"Oh, no, they were very quiet, dazed like. Some of them seemed to be saying their prayers. But they made no fuss at all, not even the little ones. They lay down in the bottom of the boat, and we rowed ashore as fast as we could, to Cadgwith. Then we rowed back and fetched two boatloads more. We saved a lot of lives that wreck, but only their lives; they had scarcely a rag of clothes on, and some of the babies were as naked as when they were born."
"And who took them in?"
"Everybody: we always do it," answered John, as if surprised at the question. "The fishermen's cottages were full, and so was the parsonage. We gave them clothes, and kept them till they could be sent away. Yes, it was an awful night; I got something to remember it by, here."
He held out his hand, from which we noticed half of one finger was missing.
"It got squeezed off with a rope somehow. I didn't heed21 it much at the time," said John carelessly. "But look, we're at the first of the caves. I'll row in close, ladies, and let you see it."
So we had to turn our minds from the vision of the wreck of the Brest, which John's simple words made so terribly vivid, to examine Raven's Ugo, and Dolor Ugo; ugo is Cornish for cave. Over the entrance of the first a pair of ravens22 have built from time immemorial. It is just accessible, the opening being above the sea-line, and hung with quantities of sea-ferns. Here in smuggling23 days, many kegs of spirits used to be secreted24: and many a wild drama no doubt has been acted there—daring encounters between smugglers and coastguard men, not bloodless on either side.
Dolor Ugo is now inaccessible25 and unusable. Its only floor is of heaving water, a deep olive green, and so clear that we could see the fishes swimming about pursuing a shoal of launce. Its high-vaulted roof and sides were tinted26 all colours—rose-pink, rich dark brown, and purple. The entrance was wide enough to admit a boat, but it gradually narrowed into impenetrable darkness. How far inland it goes no one can tell, as it could only be investigated by swimming, a rather dangerous experiment. Boats venture as far as the daylight goes; and it is a favourite trick of the boatman suddenly to fire off a pistol, which reverberates27 like thunder through the mysterious gloom of the cave.
A solemn place; an awful place, some of us thought, as we rowed in, and out again, into the sunshiny open sea. Which we had now got used to; and it was delicious to go dancing like a feather up and down, trusting to John Curgenven's stout28 arm and fearless, honest face. We felt sad to think this would be our last sight of him and of the magnificent Lizard coast. But the minutes were lessening29, and we had some way still to row. Also to land, which meant a leap between the waves upon slippery sea-weedy rocks. In silent dread30 I watched my children accomplish this feat13, and then—
Well, it is over, and I sit here writing these details. But I would not do it again, not even for the pleasure of revisiting Dolor Ugo and having a row with John Curgenven.
Honest fellow! he looked relieved when he saw "the old lady" safe on terra firma, and we left him waving adieux, as he "rocked in his boat in the bay." May his stout arms and kindly heart long remain to him! May his summer tourists be many and his winter shipwrecks31 few! I am sure he will always do his duty, and see that other people do theirs, or, like the proverbial Cornishmen, he "will know the reason why."
Charles was ready; waiting patiently in front of a blacksmith's shop. But, alas32! fate had overtaken us in the shape of an innocent leak in John Curgenven's boat; nothing, doubtless, to him, who was in the habit of baling it out with his boots, and then calmly putting them on again, but a little inconvenient33 to us. To drive thirty miles with one's garments soaked up to the knees was not desirable.
There was a cottage close by, whence came the gleam of a delicious fire and the odour of ironing clothes. We went in: the mistress, evidently a laundress, advanced and offered to dry us—which she did, chattering34 all the while in the confidential35 manner of country folks.
A hard working, decent body she was, and as for her house, it was a perfect picture of cleanliness and tidiness. Its two rooms, kitchen and bedroom, were absolutely speckless36. When we noticed this, and said we found the same in many Cornish cottages; she almost seemed offended at the praise.
"Oh, that's nothing, ma'am. We hereabouts all likes to have our places tidy. Mine's not over tidy to-day because of the washing. I hadn't time to clean up. But if you was to come of a Sunday. Look there!" Her eye caught something in a dark corner, at which she flew, apron37 in hand. "I declare, I'm quite ashamed. I didn't think we had one in the house."
"One what?"
"One spider web!"
Dried, warmed, and refreshed, but having found the greatest difficulty in inducing the good woman to receive any tangible38 thanks for her kindness, we proceeded on our journey; going over the same ground which we had traversed already, and finding Pradenack Down as bleak39 and beautiful as ever. Our first halt was at the door of Mary Mundy, who, with her unappreciated brother, ran out to meet us, and looked much disappointed when she found we had not come to stay.
"But you will come some time, ladies, and I'll make you so comfortable. And you'll give my duty to the professor"—it was vain to explain that four hundred miles lay between our home and his. "I hope he's quite well. He was a very nice gentleman, please'm. I shall be delighted to see him again, please'm," &c., &c.
We left the three—Mary, her brother, and Charles—chattering together in a dialect which I do not attempt to reproduce, and sometimes could hardly understand. Us, the natives indulged with their best English, but among themselves they talked the broadest Cornish.
It was a very old church, and a preternaturally old beadle showed it in a passive manner, not recognising in the least its points of interest and beauty, except some rows of open benches with ancient oak backs, wonderfully carved.
"Our vicar dug them up from under the flooring and turned them into pews. There was a gentleman here the other day who said there was nothing like them in all England."
Most curious, in truth, they were, and suited well the fine old building—a specimen41 of how carefully and lavishly42 our forefathers43 built "for God." We, who build for ourselves, are rather surprised to find in out-of-the-way nooks like this, churches that in size and adornment44 must have cost years upon years of loving labour as well as money.
It was pleasant to know that the present incumbent45, a man of archæological tastes, appreciated his blessings46, and took the utmost care of his beautiful old church. Success to him! even though he cannot boast the power of his predecessor47, the Reverend Thomas Flavel, who died in 1682, and whose monument in the chancel really expresses the sentiments—in epitaph—of the period:
"Earth, take thine earth; my sin, let Satan have it;
The world my goods; my soul my God who gave it.
For from these four, Earth, Satan, World, and God,
My flesh, my sin, my goods, my soul, I had."
But it does not mention that the reverend gentleman was the best ghost-layer in all England, and that when he died his ghost also required to be laid, by a brother clergyman, in a spot on the down still pointed40 out by the people of Mullion, who, being noted48 for extreme longevity49, have passed down this tradition from generation to generation, with an earnest credulity that we of more enlightened counties can hardly understand.
From Mullion we went on to Gunwalloe. Its church, "small and old," as Charles had depreciatingly said, had been so painfully "restored," and looked so bran-new and uninteresting that we contented50 ourselves with a distant look. It was close to the sea—probably built on the very spot where its pious51 founder52 had been cast ashore. The one curious point about it was the detached belfry, some yards distant from the church itself. It sat alone in a little cove, down which a sluggish53 river crawled quietly seaward. A sweet quiet place, but haunted, as usual, by tales of cruel shipwrecks—of sailors huddled54 for hours on a bit of rock just above the waves, till a boat could put out and save the few survivors55; of sea treasures continually washed ashore from lost ships—Indian corn, coffee, timber, dollars—many are still found in the sand after a storm. And one treasure more, of which the recollection is still kept at Gunwalloe, "a little dead baby in its cap and night-gown, with a necklace of coral beads56."
After this our road turned inland. Our good horse, with the dogged persistency57 of Cornish horses and Cornish men, plodded58 on mile after mile. Sometimes for an hour or more we did not meet a living soul; then we came upon a stray labourer, or passed through a village where healthy-looking children, big-eyed, brown-faced, and dirty-handed, picturesque59 if not pretty, stared at us from cottage doors, or from the gates of cottage gardens full of flowers and apples.
Those apples! They were a picture. Hungry and thirsty, we could not resist them. After passing several trees, hung thickly with delicious fruit, we attacked the owner of one of them, a comely60 young woman, with a baby in her arms and another at her gown.
"Oh yes, ma'am, you may have as many apples as you like, if your young ladies will go and get them."
And while they did it, she stood talking by the carriage door, pouring out to me her whole domestic history with a simple frankness worthy61 of the golden age.
"No, really I couldn't," putting back my payment—little enough— for the splendid basket of apples which the girls brought back in triumph. "This is such a good apple year; the pigs would get them if the young ladies didn't. You're kindly welcome to them—well then, if you are determined62, say sixpence."
On which magnificent "sixpenn'orth," we lived for days! Indeed I think we brought some of it home as a specimen of Cornish fruit and Cornish liberality.
Helstone was reached at last, and we were not sorry for rest and food in the old-fashioned inn, whence we could look out of window, and contemplate63 the humours of the little town, which doubtless considered itself a very great one. It was market day, and the narrow street was thronged64 with beasts and men—the latter as sober as the former, which spoke65 well for Cornwall. Sober and civil too was every one we addressed in asking our way to the house of our unknown friend, whose only address we had was Helstone. But he seemed well known in the town, though neither a rich man, nor a great man, nor—No, I cannot say he was not a clever man, for in his own line, mechanical engineering, he must have been exceedingly clever. And he was what people call "a great character;" would have made such an admirable study for a novelist, manipulated into an unrecognisable ideal—the only way in which it is fair to put people in books. When I saw him I almost regretted that I write novels no more.
We passed through the little garden—all ablaze66 with autumn colour, every inch utilised for either flowers, vegetables, or fruit—went into the parlour, sent our cards and waited the result.
In two minutes our friend appeared, and gave us such a welcome! But to explain it I must trench67 a little upon the sanctities of private life, and tell the story of this honest Cornishman. It will not harm him.
When still young he went to Brazil, and was employed by an English gold-mining company there, for some years. Afterwards he joined an engineering firm, and superintended dredging, the erection of saw-mills, &c., finally building a lighthouse, of which latter work he had the sole charge, and was exceedingly proud. His conscientiousness68, probity69, and entire reliableness made him most valuable to the firm; whom he served faithfully for many years. When they, as well as himself, returned to England, he still kept up a correspondence with them, preserving towards every member of the family the most enthusiastic regard and devotion.
He rushed into the parlour, a tall, gaunt, middle-aged70 man, with a shrewd, kindly face, which beamed all over with delight, as he began shaking hands indiscriminately, saying how kind it was of us to come, and how welcome we were.
It was explained which of us he had specially71 to welcome, the others being only humble72 appendages73, friends of the family, this well-beloved family, whose likenesses for two generations we saw everywhere about the room.
"Yes, miss, there they all are, your dear grandfather" (alas, only a likeness74 now!), "your father, and your uncle. They were all so good to me, and I would do anything for them, or for any one of their name. If I got a message that they wanted me for anything, I'd be off to London, or to Brazil, or anywhere, in half-an-hour."
And he really looked as if he would.
"But what will you take?" added the good man when the rapture75 and excitement of the moment had a little subsided76, and his various questions as to the well-being77 of "the family" had been asked and answered. "You have dined, you say, but you'll have a cup of tea. My wife (that's the little maid I used to talk to your father about, miss; I always told him I wouldn't stay in Brazil, I must go back to England and marry my little maid), my wife makes the best cup of tea in all Cornwall. Here she is!"
And there entered, in afternoon gown and cap, probably just put on, a middle-aged, but still comely matron, who insisted that, even at this early hour—3 P.M.—to get a cup of tea for us was "no trouble at all."
"Indeed, she wouldn't think anything a trouble, no more than I should, miss, if it was for your family. They never forget me, nor I them."
It was here suggested that they were not a "forgetting" family. Nor was he a man likely to be soon forgotten. While the cup of tea, which proved to be a most sumptuous78 meal, was preparing, he took us all over his house, which was full of foreign curiosities, and experimental inventions. One, I remember, being a musical instrument, a sort of organ, which he had begun making when a mere boy, and taken with him all the way to Brazil and back. It had now found refuge in the little room he called his "workshop," which was filled with odds79 and ends that would have been delightful80 to a mechanical mind. He expounded81 them with enthusiasm, and we tried not to betray an ignorance, which in some of us would have been a sort of hereditary82 degradation83.
"Ah! they were clever—your father and your uncle!—and how proud we all were when we finished our lighthouse, and got the Emperor to light it up for the first time. Look here, ladies, what do you think this is?"
He took out a small parcel, and solemnly unwrapped from it fold after fold of paper, till he came to the heart of it—a small wax candle!
"This was the candle the Emperor used to light our lighthouse. I've kept it for nearly thirty years, and I'll keep it as long as I live. Every year on the anniversary of the day I light it, drink his Majesty's health, and the health of all your family, miss, and then I put it out again. So"—carefully re-wrapping the relic84 in its numerous envelopes—"so I hope it will last my time."
Here the mistress came behind her good man, and they exchanged a smile—the affectionate smile of two who had never been more than two, Darby and Joan, but all sufficient to each other. She announced that tea was ready. And such a tea! How we got through it I hardly know, but travelling is hungry work, and the viands85 were delicious. The beneficence of our kind hosts, however, was not nearly done.
"Come, ladies, I'll show you my garden, and—(give me a basket and the grape-scissors,)" added he in a conjugal86 aside. Which resulted in our carrying away with us the biggest bunches in the whole vinery, as well as a quantity of rosy87 apples, stuffed into every available pocket and bag.
"Nonsense, nonsense," was the answer to vain remonstrances88. "D'ye think I wouldn't give the best of everything I had to your family? and so would my missis too. How your father used to laugh at me about my little maid! But he understood it for all that. Oh yes, I'm glad I came home. And now your father and your uncle are home too, and perhaps some day they'll come to see me down here—wouldn't it be a proud day for me! You'll tell them so?"
It was touching89, and rare as touching, this passionate90 personal fidelity91. It threw us back, at least such of us as were sentimentally92 inclined, upon that something in Cornish nature which found its exposition in Arthur and his faithful knights93, down to "bold Sir Bedevere," and apparently94, is still not lost in Cornwall.
With a sense of real regret, feeling that it would be long ere we might meet his like—such shrewd simplicity95, earnest enthusiasm, and exceeding faithfulness—we bade good-bye to the honest man; leaving him and his wife standing at their garden-gate, an elderly Adam and Eve, desiring nothing outside their own little paradise. Which of us could say more, or as much?
Gratefully we "talked them over," as we drove on through the pretty country round Helstone—inland country; for we had no time to go and see the Loe Pool, a small lake, divided from the sea by a bar of sand. This is supposed to be the work of the Cornwall man-demon, Tregeagle; and periodically cut through, with solemn ceremonial, by the Mayor of Helstone, when the "meeting of the waters," fresh and salt, is said to be an extremely curious sight. But we did not see it, nor yet Nonsloe House, close by, which is held by the tenure96 of having to provide a boat and nets whenever the Prince of Wales or the Duke of Cornwall wishes to fish in the Loe Pool. A circumstance which has never happened yet, certainly!
Other curiosities en route we also missed, the stones of Tremenkeverne, half a ton each, used as missiles in a notable fight between two saints, St. Just of the Land's End, and St. Keverne of the Lizard, and still lying in a field to prove the verity97 of the legend. Also the rock of Goldsithney, where, when the "fair land of Lyonesse" was engulfed98 by the sea, an ancestor of the Trevelyans saved himself by swimming his horse, and landing; and various other remarkable99 places, with legends attached, needing much credulity, or imagination, to believe in.
But, fearing to be benighted100 ere reaching Marazion, we passed them all, and saw nothing more interesting than the ruins of disused tin mines, which Charles showed us, mournfully explaining how the mining business had of late years drifted away from Cornwall, and how hundreds of the once thriving community had been compelled to emigrate or starve. As we neared Marazion, these melancholy101 wrecks with their little hillocks of mining debris102 rose up against the evening sky, the image of desolation. And then St. Michael's Mount, the picture in little of Mont St. Michel, in Normandy, appeared in the middle of Mount's Bay. Lastly, after a gorgeous sunset, in a golden twilight103 and silvery moonlight, we entered Marazion;-and found it, despite its picturesque name, the most commonplace little town imaginable!
We should have regretted our rash decision, and gone on to Penzance, but for the hearty104 welcome given us at a most comfortable and home-like inn, which determined us to keep to our first intention, and stay.
So, after our habit of making the best of things, we walked down to the ugly beach, and investigated the dirty-looking bay—in the lowest of all low tides, with a soppy, sea-weedy causeway running across to St. Michael's Mount. By advice of Charles, we made acquaintance with an old boatman he knew, a Norwegian who had drifted hither—shipwrecked, I believe—settled down and married an English woman, but whose English was still of the feeblest kind. However, he had an honest face; so we engaged him to take us out bathing early to-morrow.
"And to-night, ladies?" suggested the faithful Charles. "Wouldn't you like to row round the Mount?—When you've had your tea, I'll come back for you, and help you down to the shore—it's rather rough, but nothing like what you have done, ma'am," added he encouragingly. "And it will be bright moonlight, and the Mount will look so fine."
So, the spirit of adventure conquering our weariness, we went. When I think how it looked next morning—the small, shallow bay, with its toy-castle in the centre, I am glad our first vision of it was under the glamour105 of moonlight, with the battlemented rock throwing dark shadows across the shimmering106 sea. In the mysterious beauty of that night row round the Mount, we could imagine anything; its earliest inhabitant, the giant Cormoran, killed by that "valiant107 Cornishman," the illustrious Jack108; the lovely St. Keyne, a king's daughter, who came thither109 on pilgrimage; and, passing down from legend to history, Henry de la Pomeroy, who, being taken prisoner, caused himself to be bled to death in the Castle; Sir John Arundel, slain110 on the sands, and buried in the Chapel111; Perkin Warbeck's unfortunate wife, who took refuge at St. Michael's shrine112, but was dragged thence. And so on, and so on, through the centuries, to the family of St. Aubyn, who bought it in 1660, and have inhabited it ever since. "Very nice people," we heard they were; who have received here the Queen, the Prince of Wales, and other royal personages. What a contrast to the legendary113 Cormoran!
Yet, looking up as we rowed under the gloomy rock, we could fancy his giant ghost sitting there, on the spot where he killed his wife, for bringing in her apron greenstone, instead of granite114, to build the chapel with. Which being really built of greenstone the story must be true! What a pleasure it is to be able to believe anything!
Some of us could have stayed out half the night, floating along in the mild soft air and dreamy moonlight, which made even the commonplace little town look like a fairy scene, and exalted115 St. Michael's Mount into a grand fortress116, fit for its centuries of legendary lore—but others preferred going to bed.
So we landed, and retired117. Not however without taking a long look out of the window upon the bay, which now, at high tide, was one sheet of rippling118 moon-lit water, with the grim old Mount, full of glimmering119 lights like eyes, sitting silent in the midst of the silent sea.
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lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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flux
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| n.流动；不断的改变 | |
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misgave
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的过去式 ) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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feat
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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emigrant
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ashore
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heed
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ravens
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smuggling
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secreted
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inaccessible
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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reverberates
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的第三人称单数 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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lessening
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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31
shipwrecks
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| 海难，船只失事( shipwreck的名词复数 )； 沉船 | |
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32
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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33
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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34
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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35
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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36
speckless
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| adj.无斑点的，无瑕疵的 | |
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37
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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38
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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39
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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40
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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41
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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42
lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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43
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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44
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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45
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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46
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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47
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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48
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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49
longevity
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| n.长命；长寿 | |
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50
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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51
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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52
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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53
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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54
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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55
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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56
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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57
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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58
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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59
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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60
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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61
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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62
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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63
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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64
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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66
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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67
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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68
conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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69
probity
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| n.刚直；廉洁，正直 | |
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70
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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71
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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72
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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73
appendages
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| n.附属物( appendage的名词复数 )；依附的人；附属器官；附属肢体（如臂、腿、尾等） | |
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74
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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75
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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76
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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77
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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78
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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79
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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80
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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81
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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83
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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84
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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85
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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86
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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87
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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88
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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89
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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90
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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91
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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92
sentimentally
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| adv.富情感地 | |
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93
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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94
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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95
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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96
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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97
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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98
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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100
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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101
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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102
debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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103
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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104
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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105
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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106
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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107
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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108
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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109
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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110
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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111
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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112
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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113
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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114
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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115
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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116
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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117
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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118
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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119
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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