'You can read and write, I suppose,' replied Mr. Stoate contemptuously. ('Better nor you,' murmured a young fellow just within earshot.) 'Is them words on the telegram, what I told the men of this shed, and are you thereby17 ordered to come out, or are you not? That's what I want to know. Are you a-goin' to defy the union? Think a bit afore you chance that and turn "scab."'
'I'm goin' to think a bit—just so,—and I hope you other chaps'll do the same, and not rush into law, like a bull at a gate, and lose your money, because of any second fiddle18 in the land. As to being a "scab," Delegate Stoate, I'm no more one than you are, perhaps not as much, if the truth's 34told. But don't you say that to me again, or I'll pitch you through one of them skylights, with one hand too.' And here the giant stretched forward his enormous fore-arm, and looking upward to the skylight in the roof of the woolshed, made as though there would be no unusual difficulty in the feat19. 'Show me that telegram, please; this step wants consideration.'
'Ain't you goin' to obey the union?' demanded Stoate with a great assumption of dignity. 'P'raps you ain't aweer, men, as this is a serious act of disobedience, which I shall report accordin'.'
'That's all very well,' answered the dissenter20, whose unusual height, as he towered above his fellows, seemed to give him a certain title to leadership. 'I'm as good a unionist as any man here; but I see no points in chuckin' away our money and hurtin' an employer who's been fair and square with us. Where's he gone against our rules? I ask you all. Isn't the rules put up at the end of the shed, all ship-shape and reg'lar? Didn't we stop shearin' for two days last week, and the weather fine, because the delegate here said the wool was damp? I didn't feel no damp, nor my mate neither, and we lost two dashed good days' work—a couple of pounds each all round. Now, I don't want to go dead against the union, though I can't see the fun of losin' a goodish cheque, and, as I say, hurtin' a gentleman as never did any man here a bad turn. Let's try a middle course. Suppose we pick a man as we all can trust, and send him to Wagga. He can interview the Head Centre there, and make sure, afore we chuck away our stuff, whether every union shed's bound to come out, or whether, under partic'lar circumstances like this here, we can't cut out the shed afore we go. I move a resolution to that effect.'
'And I second it,' said Bill Hardwick. 'I want to take my money home to my old woman and the kids; I've got a lot to do with it this season, and so, I daresay, have most of you, chaps. I don't see no sense in clearin' out now, when we've got fifty or sixty pound a man, to take and goin' off with neither money nor grub. Of course, we can wait to be paid out of union funds, but we know what that means. Those that votes for Jim Stanford's motion, and fair play, hold up your hands.'
35The scene that followed was hard to describe. A forest of hands was held up, while there rose a babel of voices, some laying down the law, others expressing a doubt of the prudence21 of flouting22 the mysterious powers of the A.S.U., in the midst of which Mr. Stoate, standing23 upon the wool table, vainly attempted to make himself heard.
The controversy24 continued until the dinner-bell rang, by which time it was clear that the sense of the meeting was overwhelmingly in favour of Stanford's amendment25.
So, in spite of Stoate's threats and envious26 malice27, a steady-going, aged29" target="_blank">middle-aged28 shearer30 of known probity31 and experience was chosen and despatched to Narandera, en route for Wagga Wagga, for further instructions. In the meantime, it was agreed to go on with the shearing, to which the men addressed themselves with such energy and determination, that when the knock-off evening bell sounded, the tallies32 were larger than on any preceding afternoon of the week. Jack33 Macdonald was delighted, though he refrained from open commendation, as he noticed that all the fast shearers made a point of shearing carefully and giving no room for disapprobation on his part.
Mr. Stoate viewed the whole proceedings37 with unconcealed disgust, and talked big about taking down the names of every man in the shed, and so reporting them that they would never get another 'stand' in a union shed. He found, however, that except among the young, unmarried men, and a few reckless spendthrifts, who were carried away by the specious38 ideas at that time freely ventilated, he had little influence.
Stanford and Hardwick were noted39 men—honest, hard-working, and respected as 'ringers,' and as such, leaders in their profession. As Stanford bent40 his long back, and lifted out a fresh sheep every few minutes from the pen, with as much apparent ease as if the big, struggling seventy pound wether had been a rabbit, a feeling of industrial emulation41 seemed to pervade42 the great shed, and each man 'shore for his life,' as old Billy Day expressed it—'and that dashed neat and careful, as if there was a hundred pound prize at next Wagga Show hangin' to it.'
'Wait till George Greenwell comes back,' said Stoate—'and he ought to be here inside of eight days, as he can get the rail from Narandera—and see what you'll have to say, then.'
36Of course, telegrams had been sent, and arrived with reiterated43 command from the Napoleon at Wagga Wagga—to lay down their arms, or rather their shears44, as ordered.
And this was the crowning injustice45 and treachery of the ukase—that all the union sheds in New South Wales, where the proprietors46 had surrendered their independence, and pocketed their pride, at the bidding of expediency47, were penalised. Those squatters who 'bowed not the knee to Baal,' and fought out the contest, with sheds half full of 'learners,' and strangers from other colonies, brought over by the Pastoral Association, as well as the free shearers, who, intimidated49 by the union guerillas, were often injured and hindered as to their lawful50 work, were now in a far better position. They were able to laugh at the surrendering squatters.
'You have given in,' said they; 'sacrificed principle and set a bad example for the sake of getting quickly through this season's shearing. You betrayed your pastoral comrades, and are now betrayed by the union; you are left in the lurch51. Serve you right!'
So, 'deserted52 in their utmost need,' with half-shorn sheep, and no hope of fresh men—as the non-union sheds had secured most of the available labour—they were in a pitiable condition, neither help nor sympathy being procurable53; while many of the free sheds were shearing steadily54 and comfortably, with a 'full board.'
In seven days, Mr. Greenwell was expected to appear. He could ride to Narandera in three days; twenty-four hours would take him to Wagga Wagga, after stopping for the night at Junee Junction55. This was far and away the finest railway station in New South Wales, perhaps in Australia, having not only an imposing56 structure connected with the railway proper, but a very fine hotel, erected57 by the Government of New South Wales, liberally managed and expensively furnished.
There, the railway passenger could spend the night, or a week, if he so decided58, being sure that he would be called at the proper time, either by night or day, to be despatched on his journey in an enviable and Christian59 state of mind.
The days passed on at Tandara, the week was nearly over. Such quick and clean shearing had never been done there 37before. The last day of the allotted60 time approached. Greenwell had not arrived, but surely he would turn up on the morrow.
Stoate was uneasily anxious. He hinted at treachery. But Greenwell, a regular, downright 'white man,' could not be 'got at.' Every one scoffed61 at the idea. One of the rouseabouts, who had known better times, hummed the refrain of 'Mariana in the moated grange': 'He cometh not, she said.' Worst of all, from Stoate's point of view, the shearing would be finished in two more days. The shed would then be paid off—shearers, pressers, rouseabouts, the cook and his mate, everybody down to the tar-boy. If their emissary didn't come before then, he might just as well not come at all. The 'might, majesty62, and dominion63' of the Australian Shearers' union, with 20,000 members in all the colonies, which had aimed at one great 'Australian Labourers' union' in town and country, would be set at nought64. They had planned the inclusion of every worker—that is, muscle-worker, for brains didn't count—from the ship's cook of the coaster to the boundary rider on the Lower Darling or the Red Barcoo; from the gas-stoker in Melbourne or Sydney, where they hoped to plunge65 the cities into darkness, to the stock-rider, behind his drove of Queensland bullocks; and the back-block carrier, with his waggon66 and team of fourteen unshod Clydesdales or Suffolks.
And now, in the case of the Tandara shed, one of the best known and oldest stations on the Darling, this campaign against capital was to end in defeat and disappointment.
Stoate groaned67 in despair, as the eighth day arrived and no messenger. For the last forty-eight hours he had been looking anxiously for the cloud of dust at the end of the long, straight road across the endless plain, which heralded68 the approach of team, coach, or horseman.
As if to aggravate69 the Strike leaders, and all connected with that beneficent institution, the weather had been miraculously70 fine. No spring storms had come out of the cloudless sky, not so much as a 'Darling River shower'—four drops upon five acres,' in the vernacular—had sprinkled the red dust of the plain, to give the delegate the excuse to declare the sheep too wet to shear5, and so lose a day. 38Nothing, in fact, happened. And on the noontide hour of the fourth day succeeding the week, Tandara shed 'cut out.' The 'cobbler,' the last sheep—a bad one to shear, and so considerately left for 'some one else,' by every man who picked out of the large middle pen—was lifted aloft by Stanford, amid the jeers71 of the men, now preparing with stiff backs and aching sinews to surrender their task for a full week at any rate, before they 'struck' the next shed, lower down the river.
'I could shear him,' said he, regarding the closely wrinkled 'boardy' fleece, 'if he was covered with bloomin' pin-wire. My word! isn't it a pity that Greenwell didn't turn up afore? Eh, Mr. Delegate? D'ye think the union'll guillotine us, same as they did chaps at the French Revolution? I'm off to Launceston in case of accidents. My cheque'll keep me for the rest of the summer, in a country that is a country—not a God-forsaken dust-heap like this.' Thus speaking, and shearing all the while, with punctilious72 precision, Mr. Stanford trimmed the 'cobbler' with a great affectation of anxiety, and dismissing him down the shoot of the pen with a harmless kick, said, 'Good-bye, and God bless you, old man; you make eighty-nine—not a bad forenoon's work.'
'Come along, men, down to the office,' said Macdonald, 'your money's ready for you—the storekeeper and I were up pretty nigh all night getting the accounts made out. You'll enjoy your dinners all the better for having your money in your pockets. The rouseabouts and shed hands can come in the afternoon. They won't want to leave before morning.'
'Who's that coming along the Wagga road on a grey horse?' said a sharp-eyed young shearer. 'By Jing! I believe it's Greenwell. Whatever can have kep' him, Mr. Stoate?'
'Never mind him,' said Macdonald. 'John Anderson, this is your account; look it over. £45:10:6. You'll take a cheque; here it is—sign the book. I'll take you all by the alphabet.'
As the men stood round the little room at the side of the big store, that served for the station office, the traveller on the grey horse rode slowly towards them.
The men were in a merry humour. Their keen eyes had 39recognised horse and rider afar off. It was the messenger who had so signally failed in coming up to time. He was received with a storm of ironical73 cheers and derisive74 exclamations75.
'Halloa, George—where yer been? To Sydney and back? Got warrants for us all? To think as we should ha' cut out, and you on the road with an order from the Head Centre in your pocket! Come along, Mr. Delegate, and talk straight to him.'
These and the like specimens76 of humorous conversation were shouted at the unlucky emissary, who, as he came up and wearily dismounted, evidently knew that an explanation would be demanded of him.
Stoate walked out with a solemn and dignified77 air to meet him. 'Well done, Mr. Delegate, give it to him from the shoulder. He's a jolly telegraph, ain't he? Why, Joe Kearney the sprinter78 could have run all the way and beat him, hands down.'
'Will you oblige me by statin' the cause of your delay on a mission of importance to the union and your feller-workers?'
'Now then, George, speak up—give us the straight griffin. What was it? Honour bright; did yer join a circus? Was there a good-looking girl in the way? And you a married man. For shame of you!'
Between the awful visage of Mr. Stoate and the running fire of chaff79 from his mates, Greenwell looked rather nonplussed80.
However, girding himself for the contest, he mustered81 up courage, and thus delivered himself.
'Well, boys, the long and short of it is, I was took ill at Junee, on the return journey, and after stayin' a day, just as I was startin' back, some old mates of mine, as had just cut out at Hangin' Rock, come along, and—well, the truth's the truth, we all got on a bit of a spree. Now the murder's out, and you can make the best of it. I don't see as there's anything broke, so far.'
'Anything broke,' retorted Stoate indignantly. 'Hasn't the shed been cut out, in direct disobedience of orders, and the union treated with contempt?'
'We're just gettin' our cheques,' called out a young fellow 40at the back of the crowd. 'Jolly awkward, ain't it? But I'll get over it, and so'll Dick Dawson.'
When the weighty matter of the payment was over, and the men were finishing their 'wash and brush up,' getting up their horses and settling their packs, one of the older men approached Stanford, who was quietly proceeding36 with his preparations, and thus addressed him—
'Now, Jim, you knowed that chap afore, didn't yer? Hadn't yer no notion as he might get on a "tear," with money in his pocket, and half nothin' to do like?'
Mr. Stanford made no verbal answer, but drawing himself up to the full height of his exalted82 stature83, looked down into the interrogator's face, with an expression of great solemnity. It is just possible that he may have observed a slight deflection in the corner of his left eye, as he relaxed the severity of his countenance84, while he observed resignedly, 'Well, it might have been worse; I've got the boss's cheque for £57:14s., and a few notes for the road in my pocket, this blessed minute.'
'Mine's a shade more'n that,' replied 'Long Jim,' with deliberation. '"All's well that ends well" 's a good motter. I've done enough for this season, I reckon. I had a fairish fencing contract in the winter. It'll be time enough to think about the "dignity of labour" and the "ethics85 of war" (wasn't that what the Head Centre called 'em?) afore next shearin' comes round. I'm off to a cooler shop across the Straits.'
The shearing at Tandara having ended satisfactorily to the shearer, the sheep-washers, the rouseabouts, the boundary riders, the overseers, to every one connected with the establishment in fact, from the 'ringer' to the tar-boy, all of whose wages and accounts were paid up to the last hour of the last day, in fact to every one except Mr. Janus Stoate, whose remuneration was in the future, a great silence commenced to settle down upon the place so lately resounding86 with the 'language used, and the clamour of men and dogs.' The high-piled waggons87, drawn88 by bullock teams of from twelve to twenty, and horse teams of nearly the same number, had rolled away. The shed labourers had walked off with swags on their backs. The shearers, many of whom had two horses, poor in condition when they came, but now sleek89 and spirited, had 41ridden off with money in both pockets, full of glee and playful as schoolboys. The great shed, empty save for a few bales of sheepskins, was carefully locked up, as were also the shearers' and the other huts. Even Bower90, the grim night-guardian of the woolshed, liberally remunerated, had left for Melbourne by Cobb and Co.'s coach. There, among other recreations and city joys, he betook himself to the Wax-works in Bourke Street.
As with hair and beard trimmed, newly apparelled from top to toe, he wandered around, looking at the effigies91 of former friends and acquaintances, now, alas92, cut off in their prime, or immersed in the dungeon93 of the period for such venial94 irregularities as burglary, highway robbery, manslaughter, and the like, his gaze became fixed16, his footsteps arrested. He stands before the waxen, life-like presentment of a grizzled elderly man, in rough bush habiliments, his hat a ruin, his clothes ragged95 and torn, his boots disreputable. A double-barrelled gun rests on his shoulder, while above his head is a placard, on which in large letters could seen by the staring spectator—
'Harry96 Bower, the Celebrated97 Bushranger.'
Cut to the heart, not so much by the heartless publicity98 of the affair as by the disgraceful attempt to brand him as a dirty disreputable-looking individual, he glared angrily at his simulacrum. 'And me that was always so tasty in my dress,' he muttered. So saying, he seized the hapless figure by the arm, and dragging it along with wrathful vehemence100, made for the door.
'Oh, Mr. Bower, Mr. Bower!' cried the proprietress, 'ye'll ruin him—I mane yerself. Sure ye wouldn't go to injure a poor widdy woman, and all the people sayin' it's your dead imidge.'
'Imidge of me, is it?' shouted Bower, the furious, ungovernable temper of the 'long sentence convict' breaking out. 'I'll tache ye to make a laughing-stock of Harry Bower, this day. Ye might have dressed me dacent, while ye wor about it.'
So saying, he dragged the inanimate malefactor101 through the door, and casting him down upon the Bourke Street pavement, 42commenced to kick him to pieces, to the great astonishment102 of the crowd which speedily gathered around him. A rumour103 had started that 'Bower the bushranger was killing104 a man outside the Wax-works,' and before many minutes the street was blocked with men, women, and children, lured105 to the spot by the expectation of seeing a real live bushranger in the exercise of his bloodthirsty vocation106.
A few minutes later—having dissevered several vital portions of the 'Frankenstein' individual, and, like Artemus Ward's enthusiastic Bible Christian, who 'caved Judassis' head in,' more or less demolished107 the victim—Mr. Bower, desisting, stalked moodily108 up the street, his peculiar109 reputation not leading any one to volunteer pursuit. There was no constable110 in sight, so the Mrs. Jarley of the establishment was left to her lamentations, and the dubious111 satisfaction of a remedy by civil process.
Next day, below startling headlines, similar paragraphs appeared in the leading journals.
'An Ex-Bushranger.
'Assault with intent to do grievous bodily harm.
'About three o'clock yesterday afternoon, such denizens112 of Bourke Street as were passing Mrs. Dooley's interesting collection of Wax-works were alarmed by the spectacle of an aged man of athletic113 proportions, who had assaulted an individual of similar age and appearance; had thrown him down on the pavement, and was savagely114 kicking him about the head and the body; indeed it was feared—such was the fury of his gestures—that he was actually trampling115 the unfortunate victim of his rage to death. None dared to interfere116, every one appeared paralysed; but after one or two public-spirited individuals had started for the Swanston Street police station, an adventurous117 bystander called out, 'Why, it's a wax figure.' Though a shout of laughter greeted the announcement, no one cared to remonstrate118 with the hero of so many legends—the man who, long outlawed119, and captured after a desperate resistance, had barely escaped the gallows120 for the manslaughter of the warders of the hulk President in a frustrated121 plot for escape—the dreaded122 bushranger, Henry Bower. We have since learned that this attempt at felo de se 43(in wax)—for the injured individual turned out to be a fairly correct likeness123 of himself—can only be proceeded for as a debt, which Bower in his cooler moments will not be averse124 to liquidating125, he having returned from the bush with a reasonably large cheque, earned in the service of an old employer, who gave him a berth126 at a couple of pounds a week as night-watchman of his woolshed. In these times of disturbance127 and incendiary troubles, most of our readers will concur128 with our opinion, that old Harry Bower, with his double-barrel, not swayed by frivolous129 objection to bloodshed, was, in such a position of trust, "the right man in the right place."'
When the shearers took their cash or cheques as each elected, and departed, splitting into small parties, on different routes, division of opinion took place likewise. Bill Hardwick openly declared his intention, as did several others, to 'cut the Shearers' union' and go 'on their own' for the future. 'I've had enough of this union racket,' said he, as, lighting130 his pipe, and jogging off with his two fat horses, saddled and packed, he prepared to take the 'down river' road. 'I don't see no points in being bossed by chaps like this Stead, and callin' theirselves chairmen and presidents, and what not—fellers as have done dashed little but blather this years and years. They've turned dog on the squatters as trusted 'em and "went union," and deuced near done us out of six weeks' hard graft131 at this very shed. We've got our cash, boys; that'll carry us on for a bit. But suppose we'd turned out when that galoot at Wagga wanted us to, where should we be now? Travellin' the country without a shillin' in our pockets, our shearin' money forfeited132 by the next police magistrate133 (and serve us right, too, for bein' such bally fools), and summonses and warrants out against every man on the board. I'm full of Mr. Head Centre at Wagga, with his top hat, and gold chain, and his billiards134, as our money goes to pay for. But he won't get none of mine to monkey with, nor you either, Janus Stoate, and so you may tell him next time you wire.'
'I'll report your language to the union secretary, William Hardwick, never fear,' replied Stoate, fixing his snaky eye upon him. 'You'll soon know which is the strongest—you 44or the Association, as protects the workers' interests. So I warn you, and all others as is fools enough to stand by you.'
'That'll do, Mr. Delegate,' said Bill; 'don't you go to bully135 me. Say another word, and I'll give you a smack136 or two, that'll make a better yarn137 when you're touching138 up the tell-tale business for the Head Centre. I'm off to Moorara, where there's 300,000 sheep to shear, and a board only half full. Who's comin' my way?'
There had been a hum of approbation35 when Bill finished his humble139 oratorical140 effort, after which a dozen of the best and fastest shearers announced their intention to go with him, to the wrath99 and despair of Mr. Stoate.
'I'll be even with you, Bill Hardwick,' he yelled, 'and you too, Johnny Jones—see if I don't. You'll get no stands from us this year, nor next either.'
A hundred and fifty miles below Tandara. A red-walled promontory141 overlooking the Darling, in this year a broad, majestic142 stream, with anabranches of equal breadth and volume running out for many a mile, where the river steamers took their course, cutting off corners, and, because of the depth of water in this most bountiful season, almost indifferent to obstacles. Here stood the great Head Station of Moorara. Miles of fencing of substantial character surrounded it on all sides. There was none of the ordinary carelessness as to finish, popularly supposed to be characteristic of back-block stations 'a thousand miles from everywhere,' as had been said descriptively by an imaginative tourist. On the contrary, every hut, paling, fence, gate, wall, and roof in that immense holding was in what old-fashioned English country people called 'apple-pie order.'
Everything was mended and kept right, up to date. Six carpenters and three blacksmiths lived on the premises143 all the year round. There was no waiting until that pastoral millennium144 'after shearing' arrived. Everything was done at once, and done well. The 'stitch in time' was an article of the faith at Moorara, and, as such, religiously observed. If any superficial judging tourist, observing these things, ventured to remark that such improvements must have cost a mint of money, or to hint a doubt whether such a place 'paid,' he was frowned 45down at once and haughtily145 reminded that this was Moorara, the property of the Hon. Mr. M'Cormack, whose sheep shorn last year (this was one of his long list of stations) would total up to over a million!
Just calculate what so many fleeces come to, the average weight being eight or nine pounds, and the value per head rarely under as many shillings. Then, of course, there are the other stations, carrying six hundred thousand high-class merino sheep!
Now the woolshed to which Bill and his ten or twelve companions were bound was one of which the owner had 'stood out' from the first against the tyranny of the Shearers' union.
As Bill and his companions journeyed down the river, rumour reached them of serious developments of the Great Strike. This protest against the alleged146 dictation of Capital had reached its culminating stage. The o'er-vaulting ambition of the State-school educated Mr. Stead, the originator and prime mover of the Civil War, which was now fully34 recognised, had struck a blow at the State itself—that State under which he had been bred and nurtured147, fed, protected, and presented with a 'free, compulsory148, and secular149 education.' He had justified150 the forebodings of old-fashioned Conservatives, who had always doubted the wisdom of educating the labouring classes at the expense of the ratepayers, of breeding up an army of enemies to Capital and to the settled order of the Government.
And now the long-threatened result had come to pass—a revolt against order and good government, a deliberate attempt to subvert151 the Constitution under the specious guise152 of federated labour. It had commenced with a quarrel between the cook's mate of a coasting steamer and the so-called 'delegate' of the crew, spreading with portentous153 rapidity, like the bush-fires of the land, until it enveloped154 the stock-riders of the Paroo and the teamsters of 'the Gulf155.' It menaced life and property. It attempted to plunge cities into darkness by 'calling out' the gas-stokers. It essayed to paralyse commerce by intimidating156 the carriers, whom it forbade to convey the wool—the staple157 Australian export—to the wharves158, by restraining the wharf159 labourers from loading the vessels160.
46But, in these two instances, the common-sense of the city populations came to the rescue. The young men of the learned professions, of the upper classes—in the true sense of the word—came out to play a man's part in the interests of law and order. They manned the gas-works, and, amid furnace-heat and grime, provided the necessary labour, all unused as they were to toil161 under such conditions. The cities were not wrapped in darkness, and the streets were not made ready for the spoil by the burglar, the garrotter, and the thief. A line of wool teams was driven down the principal street of Sydney by barristers and bankers, by clerks and merchants, chiefly young men, high-couraged and athletic. But on the foremost waggon, high-seated behind his four-horse team, which he tooled with practised ease, might be recognised the leonine visage and abundant beard of Winston Darling, the Explorer, the Pioneer Squatter48, the well-known Pastoral Leader and Ruler of the Waste.
The streets were crowded with yelling, blaspheming, riotous162 unionists, with difficulty kept within bounds by a strong body of police.
Stones were thrown, and foul163 epithets164 freely used. But though one youthful driver had his head cut open, no further damage was done. And the wool was safely conveyed to the wharves and shipped in spite of the threatening demeanour of the assembled thousands.
These amateurs, native-born Australian gentlefolk, worked for weeks, from six to six, in many instances galling165 the hands, which were wholly unused to such rude treatment. But they kept at it till the stubborn conflict subsided166, and not till then did they fall out of the ranks of the 'muscle-workers,' who in this and other instances have arrogated167 to themselves the title of the only workers in this complex and many-sided body politic168.
This demonstration169 was chiefly confined to the seaports170. When, however, the Ministry171 was sufficiently172 strong to call out the Volunteer regiments173, their disciplined action gained control of the disorderly mobs, and order was regained174, without discouraging delay.
But in the bush, far from help, police or military protection, matters were far otherwise. Lonely stations were terrorised. Large camps of armed and apparently175 desperate men were 47formed, who intimidated those non-union shearers and bush labourers who neither conformed to their rules nor submitted to their dictation.
They were in many cases captured, so to speak, assaulted, maltreated, and illegally restrained from following their lawful occupation. The carriers' horses or bullocks were driven away or slaughtered176, their waggons, in some instances, burned.
These outrages177 were directed against men and their employers who had dared to be independent, to exercise the right of free Britons to manage their own affairs and their own property.
It may easily be imagined how bodies of two or three hundred men, well armed and mounted, could terrorise a thinly-populated country. Specific acts of incendiarism and other offences against property were frequent. Woolsheds were burned with their contents, sometimes to the value of thousands of pounds; fences were cut and demolished; bridges and telegraph lines destroyed; in short, no lawless action which could result in expense and loss to the pastoralist, or those of the labourers who defied the New Tyranny, was omitted.
点击收听单词发音
1 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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2 anarchist | |
n.无政府主义者 | |
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3 metaphorically | |
adv. 用比喻地 | |
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4 dynamite | |
n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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5 shear | |
n.修剪,剪下的东西,羊的一岁;vt.剪掉,割,剥夺;vi.修剪,切割,剥夺,穿越 | |
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6 shearing | |
n.剪羊毛,剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 );切断;剪切 | |
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7 murmurs | |
n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 );低语声;怨言;嘀咕 | |
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8 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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9 prudent | |
adj.谨慎的,有远见的,精打细算的 | |
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10 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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11 forfeiture | |
n.(名誉等)丧失 | |
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12 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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13 impulsive | |
adj.冲动的,刺激的;有推动力的 | |
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14 considerably | |
adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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15 affixed | |
adj.[医]附着的,附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 );粘贴;加以;盖(印章) | |
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16 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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17 thereby | |
adv.因此,从而 | |
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18 fiddle | |
n.小提琴;vi.拉提琴;不停拨弄,乱动 | |
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19 feat | |
n.功绩;武艺,技艺;adj.灵巧的,漂亮的,合适的 | |
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20 dissenter | |
n.反对者 | |
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21 prudence | |
n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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22 flouting | |
v.藐视,轻视( flout的现在分词 ) | |
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23 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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24 controversy | |
n.争论,辩论,争吵 | |
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25 amendment | |
n.改正,修正,改善,修正案 | |
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26 envious | |
adj.嫉妒的,羡慕的 | |
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27 malice | |
n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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28 middle-aged | |
adj.中年的 | |
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29 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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30 shearer | |
n.剪羊毛的人;剪切机 | |
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31 probity | |
n.刚直;廉洁,正直 | |
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32 tallies | |
n.账( tally的名词复数 );符合;(计数的)签;标签v.计算,清点( tally的第三人称单数 );加标签(或标记)于;(使)符合;(使)吻合 | |
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33 jack | |
n.插座,千斤顶,男人;v.抬起,提醒,扛举;n.(Jake)杰克 | |
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34 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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35 approbation | |
n.称赞;认可 | |
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36 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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37 proceedings | |
n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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38 specious | |
adj.似是而非的;adv.似是而非地 | |
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39 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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40 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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41 emulation | |
n.竞争;仿效 | |
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42 pervade | |
v.弥漫,遍及,充满,渗透,漫延 | |
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43 reiterated | |
反复地说,重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44 shears | |
n.大剪刀 | |
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45 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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46 proprietors | |
n.所有人,业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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47 expediency | |
n.适宜;方便;合算;利己 | |
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48 squatter | |
n.擅自占地者 | |
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49 intimidated | |
v.恐吓;威胁adj.害怕的;受到威胁的 | |
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50 lawful | |
adj.法律许可的,守法的,合法的 | |
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51 lurch | |
n.突然向前或旁边倒;v.蹒跚而行 | |
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52 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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53 procurable | |
adj.可得到的,得手的 | |
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54 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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55 junction | |
n.连接,接合;交叉点,接合处,枢纽站 | |
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56 imposing | |
adj.使人难忘的,壮丽的,堂皇的,雄伟的 | |
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57 ERECTED | |
adj. 直立的,竖立的,笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立,建立 | |
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58 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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59 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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60 allotted | |
分配,拨给,摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61 scoffed | |
嘲笑,嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62 majesty | |
n.雄伟,壮丽,庄严,威严;最高权威,王权 | |
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63 dominion | |
n.统治,管辖,支配权;领土,版图 | |
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64 nought | |
n./adj.无,零 | |
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65 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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66 waggon | |
n.运货马车,运货车;敞篷车箱 | |
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67 groaned | |
v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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68 heralded | |
v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 );宣布(好或重要) | |
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69 aggravate | |
vt.加重(剧),使恶化;激怒,使恼火 | |
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70 miraculously | |
ad.奇迹般地 | |
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71 jeers | |
n.操纵帆桁下部(使其上下的)索具;嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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72 punctilious | |
adj.谨慎的,谨小慎微的 | |
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73 ironical | |
adj.讽刺的,冷嘲的 | |
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74 derisive | |
adj.嘲弄的 | |
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75 exclamations | |
n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 );感叹;感叹语;感叹词 | |
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76 specimens | |
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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77 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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78 sprinter | |
n.短跑运动员,短距离全速奔跑者 | |
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79 chaff | |
v.取笑,嘲笑;n.谷壳 | |
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80 nonplussed | |
adj.不知所措的,陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81 mustered | |
v.集合,召集,集结(尤指部队)( muster的过去式和过去分词 );(自他人处)搜集某事物;聚集;激发 | |
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82 exalted | |
adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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83 stature | |
n.(高度)水平,(高度)境界,身高,身材 | |
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84 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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85 ethics | |
n.伦理学;伦理观,道德标准 | |
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86 resounding | |
adj. 响亮的 | |
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87 waggons | |
四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 ); 铁路货车; 小手推车 | |
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88 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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89 sleek | |
adj.光滑的,井然有序的;v.使光滑,梳拢 | |
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90 bower | |
n.凉亭,树荫下凉快之处;闺房;v.荫蔽 | |
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91 effigies | |
n.(人的)雕像,模拟像,肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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92 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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93 dungeon | |
n.地牢,土牢 | |
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94 venial | |
adj.可宽恕的;轻微的 | |
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95 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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96 harry | |
vt.掠夺,蹂躏,使苦恼 | |
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97 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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98 publicity | |
n.众所周知,闻名;宣传,广告 | |
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99 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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100 vehemence | |
n.热切;激烈;愤怒 | |
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101 malefactor | |
n.罪犯 | |
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102 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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103 rumour | |
n.谣言,谣传,传闻 | |
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104 killing | |
n.巨额利润;突然赚大钱,发大财 | |
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105 lured | |
吸引,引诱(lure的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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106 vocation | |
n.职业,行业 | |
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107 demolished | |
v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 );推翻;拆毁(尤指大建筑物);吃光 | |
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108 moodily | |
adv.喜怒无常地;情绪多变地;心情不稳地;易生气地 | |
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109 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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110 constable | |
n.(英国)警察,警官 | |
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111 dubious | |
adj.怀疑的,无把握的;有问题的,靠不住的 | |
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112 denizens | |
n.居民,住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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113 athletic | |
adj.擅长运动的,强健的;活跃的,体格健壮的 | |
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114 savagely | |
adv. 野蛮地,残酷地 | |
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115 trampling | |
踩( trample的现在分词 ); 践踏; 无视; 侵犯 | |
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116 interfere | |
v.(in)干涉,干预;(with)妨碍,打扰 | |
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117 adventurous | |
adj.爱冒险的;惊心动魄的,惊险的,刺激的 | |
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118 remonstrate | |
v.抗议,规劝 | |
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119 outlawed | |
宣布…为不合法(outlaw的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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120 gallows | |
n.绞刑架,绞台 | |
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121 frustrated | |
adj.挫败的,失意的,泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 );挫败;使受挫折;令人沮丧 | |
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122 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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123 likeness | |
n.相像,相似(之处) | |
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124 averse | |
adj.厌恶的;反对的,不乐意的 | |
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125 liquidating | |
v.清算( liquidate的现在分词 );清除(某人);清偿;变卖 | |
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126 berth | |
n.卧铺,停泊地,锚位;v.使停泊 | |
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127 disturbance | |
n.动乱,骚动;打扰,干扰;(身心)失调 | |
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128 concur | |
v.同意,意见一致,互助,同时发生 | |
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129 frivolous | |
adj.轻薄的;轻率的 | |
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130 lighting | |
n.照明,光线的明暗,舞台灯光 | |
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131 graft | |
n.移植,嫁接,艰苦工作,贪污;v.移植,嫁接 | |
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132 forfeited | |
(因违反协议、犯规、受罚等)丧失,失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133 magistrate | |
n.地方行政官,地方法官,治安官 | |
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134 billiards | |
n.台球 | |
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135 bully | |
n.恃强欺弱者,小流氓;vt.威胁,欺侮 | |
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136 smack | |
vt.拍,打,掴;咂嘴;vi.含有…意味;n.拍 | |
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137 yarn | |
n.纱,纱线,纺线;奇闻漫谈,旅行轶事 | |
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138 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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139 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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140 oratorical | |
adj.演说的,雄辩的 | |
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141 promontory | |
n.海角;岬 | |
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142 majestic | |
adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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143 premises | |
n.建筑物,房屋 | |
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144 millennium | |
n.一千年,千禧年;太平盛世 | |
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145 haughtily | |
adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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146 alleged | |
a.被指控的,嫌疑的 | |
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147 nurtured | |
养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 ); 培育; 滋长; 助长 | |
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148 compulsory | |
n.强制的,必修的;规定的,义务的 | |
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149 secular | |
n.牧师,凡人;adj.世俗的,现世的,不朽的 | |
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150 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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151 subvert | |
v.推翻;暗中破坏;搅乱 | |
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152 guise | |
n.外表,伪装的姿态 | |
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153 portentous | |
adj.不祥的,可怕的,装腔作势的 | |
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154 enveloped | |
v.包围,笼罩,包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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156 intimidating | |
vt.恐吓,威胁( intimidate的现在分词) | |
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157 staple | |
n.主要产物,常用品,主要要素,原料,订书钉,钩环;adj.主要的,重要的;vt.分类 | |
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158 wharves | |
n.码头,停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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159 wharf | |
n.码头,停泊处 | |
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160 vessels | |
n.血管( vessel的名词复数 );船;容器;(具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的)人 | |
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161 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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162 riotous | |
adj.骚乱的;狂欢的 | |
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163 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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164 epithets | |
n.(表示性质、特征等的)词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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165 galling | |
adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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166 subsided | |
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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167 arrogated | |
v.冒称,妄取( arrogate的过去式和过去分词 );没来由地把…归属(于) | |
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168 politic | |
adj.有智虑的;精明的;v.从政 | |
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169 demonstration | |
n.表明,示范,论证,示威 | |
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170 seaports | |
n.海港( seaport的名词复数 ) | |
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171 ministry | |
n.(政府的)部;牧师 | |
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172 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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173 regiments | |
(军队的)团( regiment的名词复数 ); 大量的人或物 | |
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174 regained | |
复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 ); 赢回; 重回; 复至某地 | |
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175 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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176 slaughtered | |
v.屠杀,杀戮,屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177 outrages | |
引起…的义愤,激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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