Ruffians doubtless cursed and caballed among the two hundred prisoners which crowded the lower deck, but they were in a minority. A herd7 of luckless peasants constituted the main body; found guilty of rick-burning and machine-breaking only—crimes common enough in England, before the repeal8 of the corn-laws.
Their offences had been but the ignorant, instinctive9 protest of Labour against Capital; less dangerous far than the organised communism of the present day. Poachers and petty larcenists, with other humble10 criminals, completed the list. For the most part they were a timid and obedient company, cowed and unresisting, incapable11 of planning mutiny or revenge. Our family party consisted of two tiny sisters and myself, my mother, and our nursemaid—a resolute12, sterling13 Englishwoman, destined14 in days to come to be the best friend our childhood could have found in the new world or the old. The ordinary military guard, so many rank and file, with their officers, together with the Surgeon-Superintendent, had been detailed15 for the duty of ensuring discipline and the safety of the ship.
322It may well have been that among the band of exiles were some unjustly sentenced, mixed up accidentally with a crowd of excited rustics17 engaged in unlawful deeds—wondering spectators rather than actors. Such a victim was probably the unhappy Annetts, a vacant-faced farm labourer, from Essex or Dorset, whose wife, accompanied by their two children, came daily to see him before the ship sailed.
I seem to remember the wretched group, though most probably it was my good nurse's description that imprinted18 it indelibly on my memory.
There would they sit, hour after hour, bathed in tears—he, with the irons on his limbs and the ugly prison garb19; she almost a girl, with traces of rustic16 beauty, as he was hardly more than a boy—holding each other's hands and weeping silently for hours; then, sobbing20 in paroxysms of lamentation21, both repeatedly declaring his innocence22, the children wondering gravely at the strange surroundings, at times mingling23 their tears with those of their parents. It was a sight to touch the heart of the sternest. Then the last agonised parting, when the fainting woman was carried on shore, when the hopeless outcast watched his native land recede24, instinctively25 aware that he gazed on it for the last time.
Is there such a physiological26 process as a broken heart? It would seem so, even in this world of lightly-borne sorrows and forgotten joys. He, at least, was not thus fashioned, stolid28 peasant as he seemed to outward view, untaught, uncared-for, born to the plough and the monotonous29 labour of the farm animals, which in his undeveloped intelligence he so closely resembled. But their fidelity30 to the heart's deepest feelings was rooted in his being. He never raised his head afterwards, as the phrase goes. He moved and spoke31, went through the ordinary motions of humanity, as in a dream. Day by day he pined and wasted; in little more than a month, from no particular ailment32, he died and found burial in that mysterious main which before his sentence he had never seen.
The only other death on board was that of the second mate, a fine young seaman34 named Keeling. Strange to say, he had a presentiment35 that drowning would be the manner of his end. He would say as much, on one occasion telling us that he was one of three brothers. Two had been lost at sea. He knew the same fate was in store for him. He even put his 323head in a bucket of water once, and held it there, 'to see how it felt.' He was strong, active, temperate36, and a smart officer. One day, in calm weather, when spearing fish from the dolphin-striker, he lost his balance and fell overboard. The ship had way on, though the breeze was light. He was a good swimmer; a boat was instantly lowered. I believe that my recollection of seeing him rise and fall upon the waves, far astern of the vessel, is accurate. The boat rapidly nears him—swimming strongly and easily supporting himself. It turns for a moment, shutting him out from sight. A man leans over to grasp him. Why do they commence to pull round in circles? Why can we not see the rescued man taken into the boat? After an interval37 which appears terribly long, the boat comes back to the ship without him. At the very moment of rescue a wave drove the boat stem on. The keel struck him on the head. He sank like a stone, never being visible to the boat's crew afterwards. Thus was his doom38 accomplished39.
Though our passengers did not resemble those of the Malabar, we boasted a similar military force. The Surgeon-Superintendent was a much-travelled, cultured man. The Major and Subalterns in charge of the detachment were agreeable personages; fortunately they were not required to act in any military capacity beyond causing guards to be strictly40 kept. Had the prisoners even been other than they were, their chance in rising would have been small, having to deal with one of the most watchful41, prompt, and determined42 men, in the captain of the vessel, that ever trod a plank43. It was happily ordered otherwise. The voyage was successful and devoid44 of adventure. There were neither storms, mutinies, fevers, nor other disasters. And somewhere about the month of August (as we left England in April 1831) we delivered our passengers to the authorities in Launceston, in good order and condition. Our military friends quitted us after our arrival in Sydney, our final destination. My father had visited the port when an officer in the East India Company's service as far back as the year 1820, had been struck with the land's capabilities45, and augured46 well of its future. He resolved to settle therein in the aftertime, did events shape themselves that way. By that voyage our destinies as a family were decided47.
The Paris of the South was then a seaside town, numbering 324not more than thirty or forty thousand inhabitants. Described in station parlance48, it was well grassed and lightly stocked. As a matter of fact there was a good deal of grass in the streets, and between Macquarie Place, which was our first location, and the Domain49, the little Alderney cow, which had accompanied us on the ship, was able to pick up a good living. She and other vagrom milch kine often eluded50 the vigilance of the sentry51, at the entrance to the Domain, where they revelled52 in the thick couch-grass; to be turned out at the point of the bayonet when discovered. Much of the city is changed; but much remains53 unchanged. Our first abode54 was a moderate-sized house in Macquarie Place. It possessed55 a second story and a garden, standing56 next to a tall, narrow building, occupied by Mr. Harrington, an eminent57 civil servant of the pre-parliamentary régime, later on Griffiths Fanning's office. Messrs. Montefiore, Breillat, and Co. possessed the corner house with its walled enclosure, taking in the angle of Bent58 Street, with a frontage also to O'Connell Street. The wall, the house, and the store still stand, unaltered in half a century. Mr. Dalgety, then himself a junior clerk, might be seen walking to and fro from the wharves59, inspecting cargo60, note-book in hand. Think of that, young gentlemen in like positions, and ponder upon the mercantile monarchies61 which have been (and may still be) reached by perseverance62, financial talent, and prudent63 ambition!
Chief-Justice and Mrs. Forbes, with their family, inhabited a large stone house on the opposite side of the street, also surrounded by a wall. It now forms a portion of the Lands Office buildings. Archdeacon Cowper lived on the other side, now New Pitt Street, a grass plot with two large cedars64 being in front of the house.
Sydney must have been then not unlike in appearance to one of the larger country towns, Bathurst or Goulburn, save and excepting always its possession of the unrivalled harbour and that fragment of Eden the Botanic Garden. There we children walked in the mornings of our first summer in Sydney. The grateful freshness of the air, the beauty of the overhanging trees, the vision of blue water and white-winged skiffs seen through flower thickets65, still remains among my childhood's fairest memories.
At the back of our garden rose a stone wall, which supported the higher level of the allotments fronting O'Connell 325Street. In a balconied mansion66 opposite lived Mr. Raymond, the Postmaster-General, with his numerous family of sons and daughters.
How few survive of that merry band of youths and maidens67, whom I remember so well! After our debarkation68 no time was lost in sending me to school. A lady who lived conveniently close, in O'Connell Street, first directed the pothooks and hangers69, which, further developed, have since covered so many a printed page. Mr. Walter Lamb and the late Colonel Peel Raymond were among my schoolfellows. At the ripe age of seven, being according to the maternal70 partiality too far advanced for a dame71 school, I was promoted to Mr. Cape72's Sydney Academy, in King Street, opposite to St. James's Church. Seventy boys more or less were there, not a few of whom have since distinguished73 themselves 'in arms, in arts, in song.' William Forster, Walter Lamb, Whistler Smith, and Allan Macpherson were among my older comrades. I well remember on the day of my arrival how Forster, actuated by the hatred74 of injustice75 which characterised his after-life, fought a sanguinary battle with another oldster who had been oppressing a smaller boy. Sir James Martin was there then, or came soon afterwards. At any rate he was one of the scholars when Mr. Cape, then newly appointed Headmaster of the Sydney College, moved over and took possession of that institution upon its opening day. The Nortons, James and John, were among the pupils, with many others whom I could perhaps recall, but whose names are at present fading in the mists of the past. The Dowlings, Mitchells, David Forbes, Sir John Robertson, Mr. Dalley, with many another, were among the pupils of that most conscientious76 and earnest teacher. They will always acknowledge, doubtless, their indebtedness to him for a sound classical training, the groundwork of their higher education.
The late Mr. James Laidley was one of the smaller boys at that time. Our fathers had been friends in other lands. I saw Commissary-General Laidley's funeral—a military one—and Dick Webb, the family coachman, leading the dead officer's favourite chestnut77 mare78 in the procession.
On the day of my introduction came also a new boy, about the same age. His name was Hugh Ranclaud. We were placed in a class in order to test our reading, and, as the last 326comers, at the bottom of the class. The lesson commenced; the others went through their allotted79 portion haltingly, after the fashion of the small boy of the period. When it came to Ranclaud's turn, he commenced in a clear, distinct, properly-punctuated manner, much as if he had been in the habit of performing at penny readings, or acting80 as curate on occasion. I see (as if it were yesterday) Mr. Cape, who paused to listen, take him by the arm and march him to the head of the class. I was promoted, too, and we soon quitted that class for a higher place in the Division, from that day to be close friends and confidants in literary matters. Eager, voracious81 readers we both were. He was a poet as well. We used to walk about arm in arm and recite bits out of Walter Scott and Byron. Until we left school and settled in different colonies our friendship remained unbroken.
The first thing I remember after the ceremony of installation was the adjournment82 to the new cricket-ground granted for our use in that part of Hyde Park then known as the Racecourse, which was opposite to the College, now the Grammar School. Percy and Hamilton Stephen were at the wickets. They, with their cousins James and Frank, Alfred, Consett, and Matthew Henry were among the schoolboys of that period; Prosper83 and André de Mestre, with, later on, Etty (Etienne), then a little chap, like myself.
We of the old school were much gratified at the superior advantages we now enjoyed in the way of playgrounds. The free use of Hyde Park, then merely fenced and not planted, was granted to us. Below the school building was a large area, divided by a wall from the present labyrinth84 of terraces built on the Riley Estate, then a furze-covered paddock of pathless wilds, in which we were free to wander.
A chain-gang was at that time employed, under armed warders, in levelling the line of road which leads towards Waverley. One of the prisoners tried to escape and was shot by a warder. We boys went over. There he lay dead in his prison garb, with a red stain across his chest, 'well out of the scrape of being alive and poor,'—only paupers86 were unknown then, and prisoners, of course, plentiful87.
We were near enough to the Domain for the boarders to walk to 'The Fig-tree,' that well-known spot in Wooloomooloo Bay, where so many generations of Sydney boys have learned 327to swim. The old tree (a wild one) was there long years after, and from the stone wharf88, with steps considerately made in Governor Macquarie's time, how many a 'header' has been taken, how many a trembling youngster pitched in by ruthless schoolmates! There was no danger, of course, and among rough-and-ready methods of teaching a useful accomplishment89, it is perhaps one of the best. Mr. Cape was a good swimmer, and on the mornings when he accompanied us, these little diversions were not indulged in.
My recollections of him as a headmaster, and, indeed, in every other capacity, is uniformly favourable90. He was a strict, occasionally severe, but invariably just ruler. Discriminating91 too, always ready to assist real workers such as Forster, Martin, George Rowley, and other exceptional performers. But for us of the rank and file, whose scholastic92 ambition lagged consistently behind our powers, he had neither mercy nor toleration. A thorough disciplinarian, prompt, punctual, unsparing, we knew what we had to expect. The consequence was that a standard of acquirement was reached at a comparatively early age by his scholars which with a less resolute instructor93 would never have been gained.
The constitution of the school was professedly in accordance with the Church of England denomination94, but it was wisely ordered by the founders95 that no religious disability should exist. The fees were low, particularly for the day scholars. All ranks and denominations96 were equally represented, equally welcome. Mr. Cape himself, though inflexibly97 orthodox as an Anglican Churchman, was liberal and comprehensive in his views. The school was commenced (I think)—certainly ended—with a prayer from the Liturgy98. The boys who belonged to Jewish, Roman Catholic, or Nonconformist denominations were permitted at pleasure to absent themselves from this observance. Very few troubled themselves to do so. Among the boys themselves I never remember the religious question being raised. We remained united and peaceable as a family (resorting, of course, to the British ordeal99 of single combat on occasions), but all took rank in the school chiefly in accordance with their prowess in the classes or the cricket-field. We had no other standards of merit.
Talking of cricket, the 'stars' of my day were Mr. William 328Roberts, senior, who with his brothers Dan and Jack100 were my contemporaries, and Mr. William Still. Roberts was a distinguished bat, renowned101 for the finer strokes and artistic102 'cuts.' Still was a deadly bowler103, a first-class field, and unerring catch.
In those days the old barrack-square was in existence, taking up many thousand feet of priceless frontage, at present value, in George Street. The military reviews and evolutions performed therein afforded unfailing interest to the schoolboy and nursery-maid of the period. Colonel Despard was the military commander of the day. His carriage and pair of chestnut horses, George and Charger, both nearly thoroughbreds, passed into our hands at the sale of his effects previous to his departure from the colony for New Zealand.
Racing104 matters, which have received of late years such astonishing development, were then in an infantile condition, it may be believed. Hyde Park was probably the first race-course. The next arena105 (literally) was the Old Sandy Course near Botany. To this unimproved tract106 I remember trudging107 with school comrades in 1836, when we witnessed a closely contested race, in heats too, between Traveller and Chester, the former winning. Frank Stephen rode a mule108 that day, who kicked all the way there and back. Lady Godiva and Lady Cordelia were the heroines of that meeting. Charles Smith and Charles Roberts were the principal supporters of the turf. This was near the proclamation of Her Gracious Majesty's accession to the throne at the age of eighteen years. Hugh Ranclaud and I attended the ceremony, and heard the proclamation read among the oak trees not far from the Lands Office.
The late Colonel Gibbes was a friend of the family. Edmund Gibbes was a schoolfellow, and many holiday visits were paid to Point Piper, their lovely residence. It was my ideal of perfection as a haven109 of bliss110 for boys, far removed from lessons and other drawbacks of youth. Many a happy day I spent there, though nearly coming to premature111 grief in the fair (and false) harbour. A large, well-ordered mansion, sufficiently112 removed from town to have country privileges, Point Piper contained all the requirements for youthful enjoyment113. The kindest hostess, the nicest girls, a picturesque114 old-fashioned garden with fruit and flowers in profusion115, fishing, bathing, 329boating to any extent, books, and music,—all the refinements116 and elegancies then procurable117 in Australia. As to the course of everyday life, it did not differ noticeably, as I can aver85 from after-experience, from that of country-house life in England. The stables were well ordered, grooms119 and coachman being assigned servants of course. Perhaps a stricter supervision120 was necessary for some reasons. At a stated hour one of the sons of the house was expected to walk down to the stables, which were half a mile distant, to perform the regulation inspection121, to see the evening corn given, the horses bedded down for the night.
We boys (Edmund, his younger brother Gussie, and myself) used to fish and bathe nearly all day long, continuing indeed the latter recreation in the summer afternoons till the sun scorched122 our backs. Then, after a joyous123 evening, how sweet to fall asleep, lulled124 by the surges, which ever, even in calmest weather, made mournful music on rock or silver-sanded shore the long night through!
About this time a certain adventure befell our party, which might have ended tragically125. One fine morning Gussie and I, with a kinsman126 about the same age, went fishing in the bay. Our 'kellick' was down, and the sport had been good. The provisional anchor was lifted at length, as the wind, having shifted, began to blow off the land. We had delayed too long, and found it hard work to make headway against it. Pulling with unusual determination, one oar33 snapped. The blade floated away. The gale127 was rising fast. Moving broadside on meant being blown out to sea. An interval of uncertainty128 ensued. Gussie, who was a little fellow, began to cry as we rapidly receded129 from the Point and the waves rose higher.
I took the command—my first salt-water commission. It was no use letting matters (and the boat) drift. To this day I wonder at the inventiveness which the emergency developed. Taking off Gussie's pinafore, a brown holland garment of sufficient length, I caused him to stand up and hold it like a sail. Wallace, the other boy, was to act as look-out man. I took the tiller and steered130 towards Shark Island, which lay between Point Piper and the Heads. Our spread of canvas was just sufficient to keep steerage way on. The wind was right aft. And in a comparatively short time we jammed the 330boat's bow between two rocks, where there was just beach enough to haul her up safe on our desert island.
We knew, of course, that they would see us from the house, and judging that we were cast away, send for us. Soon we discerned a boat coming to our rescue manned by the groom118 and the gardener—both fair oarsmen. The wind was a good capful by this time, and it took two hours' hard pulling to land us at the Point Piper jetty. 'Oh, you naughty boys!' I can hear the mild chatelaine saying in simulated wrath131 as we marched up, extremely glad to be so well out of it; and as they were very glad too, no serious consequences tending to moral improvement ensued.
At the Sydney College half-yearly examination Archbishop Polding was always among the examiners—a gentle, if dignified133, old man, whom all of us revered134. Our own Bishop132 and clergy135 attended on these occasions, but I have a more distinct impression of the Prelate first mentioned than of any other clergyman of the day. St. Mary's Cathedral was building then—it is building now—a monument of the persistent136 progress of the Church of Rome. What she begins she always ends, rarely relinquishing137 an undertaking138 or a stronghold. My reason for mentioning the religious aspect of the question is that, save for the morning and evening prayer and Mr. Cape's regular church-going, our school, though strictly denominational in theory, was virtually national and secular139; chiefly, as I said before, because we of the different sects140 and persuasions141 agreed to respect each other's religious opinions and beliefs.
Whether this practical Christianity made us the worse churchmen in after-life I leave others to judge. When my father deserted142 salt water for the land permanently143, he did not fix on one of the charming nooks embosomed in sea-woods which lay so temptingly between Hyde Park and the South Head road. Like most sailors, he had had enough of 'the sad sea waves,' whether in play or in earnest, and was relieved to be out of sound of them. Glenrock was, I believe, offered to him at a temptingly low rate, but he preferred to buy a tract of wild land at Newtown, as the suburban144 hamlet was then called, there to build and improve.
Beginning in good earnest, the walls of a large two-storeyed house soon arose—something between a bungalow145 and a 331section of a terrace. One Indian feature of the place was a verandah fully146 a hundred feet in length, and twelve feet in breadth, running across the fa?ade and turning the ends of the house. This was flagged with the cream-coloured Sydney sandstone. Well do I remember its refreshing147 coolness of touch and appearance in our first summer. The house being built, the garden planted, and the whole purchase substantially fenced, the property was christened 'Enmore,' the name borne by the suburb into which it has grown to this day. East Saxon originally, it may be quoted as an instance of the evolution even of names. From one of the eastern counties of England it emigrated to Barbadoes, where it served to distinguish the plantation148 of an intimate friend of my father, the late James Cavan, a wealthy mercantile celebrity149 of Barbadoes in the good old days—the days of slavery and splendour, of princely magnificence and gorgeous profits, whereof the author of Tom Cringle's Log has left such picturesque descriptions. Hence to an Australian suburb, and going further afield, still following the course of colonisation, the homely150 name has travelled into the far interior. There are now the Enmore Blocks, an Enmore sheep station, and possibly in the future there will arise an Enmore inland town, with railway terminus, town hall, and municipality complete.
In the years between 1836 and 1840, when we lived at Enmore, we had, like all other householders of the day, assigned servants. The only exceptions at that time were our confidential151 nurse, and Copeland the coachman, an ex-50th man. Most fortunate was it for us young people that such a woman had attached herself to the family; of exceptional energy and intelligence, deeply religious, with an earnest and unswerving faith—'a slave of the ought,' like Miss Feely. As she abode with us from 1828 to 1858, it may be imagined what an influence for good she exerted upon us children when almost wholly under her control.
As for the poor convicts, they were really much the same as other people. Some were good, none of them particularly bad. Their master, though with a natural leaning to quarterdeck discipline, was not severe. When they got 'into trouble,' as they expressed it, it was through their own irregularities. A man would apply for a 'pass' (a permit in writing), granting 332leave to go to town and return by, say, eight o'clock P.M.; instead of which (like the ingrate152 who stole geese off a common) he would get drunk, be locked up by the police, and be brought up before Captain Wilson or other Police Magistrate153 of the day, charged with intoxication154 and being out after hours, whereupon he received twenty-five or fifty lashes155, and was carefully returned to our service. The first intimation we received was the sight of Jack or Bill, as the case might be, coming up the carriage-drive in charge of a constable156; his blood-stained shirt tied over his shoulders by the sleeves, instead of being worn as usual.
The flogging wasn't child's play, as may be believed. I have seen the weals and torn flesh; but the men did not seem to care so much about it, nor did it tend to brutalise them, as asserted. They admitted that it was their own fault, for running against that stone wall, the law. We had nothing to do with it, but indeed suffered loss of work thereby157. In a day or two they were all right and cheerful again, well behaved of course, until that fatal 'next time.' Whether the men were of tougher fibre in those days, I can't say; but fancy a latter-day larrikin getting fifty or a hundred lashes, as these men did occasionally, without wincing158, too! Compared to the modern product, the 'larrikin,' with his higher wages, better food, and more of the comforts of life than are good for him, they were angels of light.
The groom was a prisoner; so also the gardener, the butler, the housemaid, the laundress, the cook. The women were, no doubt, more difficult to manage. If they got to the sideboard when there was a bottle of wine open, trouble ensued. Hard working and well behaved generally, none of them could withstand the temptation of drink. This may have occurred more than once, but the ultimatum159 of which they stood in dread was, after repeated misbehaviour, to be sent to the Factory at Parramatta—the Bridewell of the colony. Their hair was cut short in that house of correction. They were supposed to work at hard and monotonous tasks. The work the unfortunates did not mind so much, but the short-cropped hair—all ignorant of the turn fashion was to take in after-years—they detested160 unutterably.
Two of these engagés (as French colonial officials called them) played us a pretty trick, for which, though it caused 333temporary inconvenience to the household, I have always felt inclined to pardon them.
The butler was a smartish young Dublin man, not more than a year out. He behaved well—was steady and willing. The laundress—Catherine Maloney, let us say—a quiet, hard-working young woman, was a valuable servant, worth about fifteen shillings a week, as wages go now. Fancy the privilege of keeping a capable servant, say, for four or five years certain! 'Please to suit yourself, ma'am,' and the later domestic tyrannies were then unknown. However, Patrick and Kate nourished deep designs—made it up to get married; wicked, ungrateful creatures! One fine morning they were missing, and, what was really exceptional in those man-hunting days, were never discovered—never indeed found from that day to this! 'These lovers fled away into the storm.' It would be in 1839, just about the 'breaking out' of Port Phillip. They probably got there undetected. Who knows? One wonders what became of them. Did Patrick grow rich, prosperous—even politically eminent? It was on the cards. They had my good wishes, in any case.
When we migrated to Port Phillip in 1840, a special permit was obtained from the Governor in Council to take down our servants—eight men and two women. The men went overland with the stock, and of course remained till their tickets-of-leave were due. But the women, our fellow-passengers by sea, married soon after they got to Melbourne. It was a 'rush,' in the latter-day goldfields' idiom, and women were at a premium161. We might have refused our royal permission to this, but were not hard-hearted enough to do so. We were thus left desolate162 and servantless, a condition in life much less common in those days than it is now, I grieve to say, speaking as a householder. The men on the whole behaved well. George Stevenson, a clever mechanic and gardener from the north of Ireland, was drowned while crossing the Yarra at Heidelberg by night—a shanty163 being the fatal temptation. The groom died in the Benevolent164 Asylum165 at Melbourne, after many a year of faithful service to us and others. All our men but one got their tickets-of-leave, and drifted away out of ken27. But while on the question, I may here record my opinion, that these men and their class generally did an immense deal of indispensable work in the earlier decades of 334the colony. They were, on the whole, when fairly treated, well behaved. They rarely shirked their work, were often touchingly166 attached to the families wherein they had done their enforced servitude, and after their virtual freedom was gained, mostly led industrious167 and reputable lives.
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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deportation
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| n.驱逐，放逐 | |
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probationary
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| 试用的，缓刑的 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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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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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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repeal
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| n.废止，撤消；v.废止，撤消 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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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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incapable
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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destined
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detailed
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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garb
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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22
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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23
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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24
recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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25
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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26
physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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27
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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28
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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29
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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30
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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31
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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32
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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33
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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34
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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35
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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36
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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37
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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38
doom
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|
| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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39
accomplished
|
|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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40
strictly
|
|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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41
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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42
determined
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|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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43
plank
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|
| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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44
devoid
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|
| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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45
capabilities
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|
| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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46
augured
|
|
| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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47
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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48
parlance
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|
| n.说法；语调 | |
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49
domain
|
|
| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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50
eluded
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|
| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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51
sentry
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|
| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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52
revelled
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|
| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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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
abode
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|
| n.住处，住所 | |
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55
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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56
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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57
eminent
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|
| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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58
bent
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|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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59
wharves
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|
| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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60
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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61
monarchies
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|
| n. 君主政体, 君主国, 君主政治 | |
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62
perseverance
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|
| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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63
prudent
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|
| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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64
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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65
thickets
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|
| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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66
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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67
maidens
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|
| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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68
debarkation
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|
| n.下车，下船，登陆 | |
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69
hangers
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|
| n.衣架( hanger的名词复数 )；挂耳 | |
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70
maternal
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|
| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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71
dame
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|
| n.女士 | |
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72
cape
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|
| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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73
distinguished
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|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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74
hatred
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|
| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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75
injustice
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|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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76
conscientious
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|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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77
chestnut
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|
| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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78
mare
|
|
| n.母马，母驴 | |
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79
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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80
acting
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|
| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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81
voracious
|
|
| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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82
adjournment
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|
| 休会； 延期； 休会期； 休庭期 | |
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83
prosper
|
|
| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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84
labyrinth
|
|
| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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85
aver
|
|
| v.极力声明；断言；确证 | |
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86
paupers
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|
| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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87
plentiful
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|
| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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88
wharf
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|
| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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89
accomplishment
|
|
| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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90
favourable
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|
| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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91
discriminating
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|
| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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92
scholastic
|
|
| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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93
instructor
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|
| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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94
denomination
|
|
| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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95
founders
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|
| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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96
denominations
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|
| n.宗派( denomination的名词复数 )；教派；面额；名称 | |
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97
inflexibly
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|
| adv.不屈曲地，不屈地 | |
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98
liturgy
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|
| n.礼拜仪式 | |
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99
ordeal
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|
| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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100
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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101
renowned
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|
| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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102
artistic
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|
| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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103
bowler
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|
| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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104
racing
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|
| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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105
arena
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|
| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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106
tract
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|
| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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107
trudging
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|
| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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108
mule
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|
| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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109
haven
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|
| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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110
bliss
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|
| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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111
premature
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|
| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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112
sufficiently
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|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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113
enjoyment
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|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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114
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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115
profusion
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|
| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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116
refinements
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|
| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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117
procurable
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|
| adj.可得到的，得手的 | |
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118
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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119
grooms
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|
| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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120
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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121
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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122
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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123
joyous
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|
| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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124
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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125
tragically
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|
| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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126
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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127
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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128
uncertainty
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|
| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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129
receded
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|
| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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130
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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131
wrath
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|
| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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132
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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133
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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134
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
clergy
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|
| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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136
persistent
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|
| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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137
relinquishing
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|
| 交出，让给( relinquish的现在分词 )； 放弃 | |
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138
undertaking
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|
| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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139
secular
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|
| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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140
sects
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|
| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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141
persuasions
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|
| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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142
deserted
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|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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143
permanently
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|
| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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144
suburban
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|
| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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145
bungalow
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|
| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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146
fully
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|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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147
refreshing
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|
| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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148
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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149
celebrity
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|
| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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150
homely
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|
| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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151
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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152
ingrate
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| n.忘恩负义的人 | |
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153
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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154
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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155
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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156
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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157
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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158
wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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159
ultimatum
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| n.最后通牒 | |
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160
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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162
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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163
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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164
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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165
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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166
touchingly
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| adv.令人同情地，感人地，动人地 | |
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167
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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