His anxiety as to George’s start at Oxford manifested itself in many ways, and particularly as to the want of punctuality, and accuracy in small matters, which he had already noticed. As a delicate lesson on this subject, I find him taking advantage of the fact that George’s watch was in the hands of the maker6 for repairs, to send him his own chronometer7, adding: “As your sense of trustworthiness in little and great things is a considerably8 multiplied multiple of your care for your own private property (which doubtless will grow to its right proportion when you have been cheated a little), I have no doubt old Trusty will return to me in as good order as when he left me. Furthermore, it is possible you may take a fancy to him when you have learnt the value of an unfailing guide to punctuality. In which case, if you can tell me at the end of term that you have, to the best of your belief, made the most of your time, I will with great pleasure swap9 with you. As to what is making the best of your time, you would of course like to have my ideas. Thus, then”—and your grandfather proceeds to give a number of rules, founded on his own old Oxford experience, as to reading, and goes on:—
“All this, you will say, cuts out a tolerably full employment for the term. But when you can call this in your[61] recollections, ‘terminus alba creta notandus,’ it will be worth trouble. I believe the intentions of most freshmen10 are good, and the first term generally well spent: the second and third are often the trial, when one gets confidence in oneself; and the sense of what is right and honourable11 must come in place of that deference12 for one’s superior officers, which is at first instinctive13. I am glad you find you can do as you please, and choose your own society without making yourself at all remarkable14. So I found, for the same reasons that facilitate the matter to you. Domestic or private education, I believe, throws more difficulties in the way of saying ‘No’ when it is your pleasure so to do, and the poor wight only gets laughed at instead of cultivated. After all, one may have too many acquaintance, unexceptionable though they be. But I do not know that much loss of time can occur to a person of perfectly15 sober habits, as you are, if he leaves wine parties with a clear head at chapel16 time, and eschews17 supping and lounging, and lunching and gossiping, and tooling in High Street, and such matters, which belong more to particular cliques18 than to a generally extended acquaintance in College. In all these things, going not as a raw lad, but as a man of nineteen, with my father’s entire confidence, I found I could settle the thing to my satisfaction in no time: your circumstances are precisely19 the same, and the result will probably be the same. I applaud, and κυδ?ζε, and clap you on the back for rowing: row, box, fence, and walk with all possible sturdiness. Another thing: I believe an idea prevails that it is necessary to ride sometimes, to show yourself of equestrian20 rank. If you have any mind this way, write to Franklin to send Stevens with your horse; keep him a few weeks, and I will allow you a ￡5 note to assert your equestrian dignity, now or at any other time. This is a better style of thing than piaffing about on hired Oxford[62] cocky-horses, like Jacky Popkin, and all such half-measures. The only objection to such doings is, that you certainly do see a style of men always across a horse who are fit for nothing else, and non constat that they always know a hock from a stifle-joint. But this is only per accidens. And if you have a fancy for an occasional freak this way, remember I was bred in the saddle, and, whatever my present opinions may be from longer experience, can fully21 enter into your ideas.”
You will see by his answer how readily George entered into some of his father’s ideas, though I don’t think he ever sent for his horse. A few weeks later, in 1841, he writes:—
“Now to answer your last letters. I shall be delighted to accept you as my prime minister for the next two years. Any plan of reading which you chalk out for me I think I shall be able to pursue—at least I am sure I will try to do so. Men reading for honours now generally employ ‘a coach.’ If you will condescend22 to be my coach, I will try to answer to the whip to the best of my power.”
Your grandfather accepted the post with great pleasure; and there are a number of his letters, full of hints and directions as to study, which I hope you may all read some day, but which would make this memoir23 too long. You will see later on how well satisfied he was with the general result, though in one or two instances he had sad disappointments to bear, as most fathers have who are anxious about their sons’ work. The first of these happened[63] this year. He was specially24 anxious that George should write for the Latin Verse, which prize he himself had won. Accordingly George wrote in his first year, but, instead of taking his poem himself to the Proctor’s when he had finished it, left it with his College tutor to send in. The consequence was, it was forgotten till after the last day for delivery, and so could not be received. This was a sad trial to your grandfather, both because he had been very sanguine25 as to the result, and because here was another instance of George’s carelessness about his own affairs, and want of punctuality in small things. However, he wrote so kindly26 about it, that George was more annoyed than if he had been very angry, and set to work on the poem for the next year as soon as the subject was announced, which I remember was “Noachi Diluvium.” You may be sure that now the poem went in in good time, but in due course the Examiners announced that no prize would be given for the year. I do not know that any reason was ever given for this unusual course, which surprised everyone, as it was known that several very good scholars, including, I believe, the late Head-master of Marlborough, had been amongst the competitors. Your grandfather was very much vexed27. He submitted George’s poem to two of his old college friends, Dean Milman and Bishop28 Lonsdale, both of whom had been Latin prizemen; and, when they expressed an opinion that, in default of better copies of verses, these should[64] have been entitled to the prize, he had them printed, with the following heading:—
“The refusal of the Official Committee of Examiners to award any prize for the Oxford Latin verse of 1842, has naturally led to a supposition that the scholarship and intelligence of the competitors has fallen short of the usual standard. Having, however, perused29 the following copy of verses, which are probably a fair specimen30 of those sent in, I am inclined to think, as a graduate and somewhat conversant31 with such subjects, that this discouraging inference is unfounded, and that the committee have been influenced in their discretion32 by some unexplained reason, involving no reflection on the candidates for the prize, as compared with those of former years.”
The real fact I believe to have been, so far as George was concerned, that there were two false quantities in his verses; and though these were so palpable, as your grandfather remarked, “as to be obvious to any fifth-form boy, and plainly due to carelessness in transcription, and want of revision by a second person,” the Examiners were clearly not bound to make allowances for such carelessness.
Many years after, in a letter to his sister, on some little success of her boy at Rugby, George writes:—
“I congratulate you on Walter’s success. We are much more interested for our brats33 than we were for ourselves. I remember how miserable34 my poor father made himself once when I did not get a Latin Verse prize at Oxford, and[65] how much more sorry I was for him than for myself. Anyhow, there is no pleasure equal to seeing one’s children distinguish themselves—it makes one young again.”
I have told you already that this was our first separation of any length. I did not see him from the day he went to Oxford in January until our Rugby Eleven went up to Lords, at the end of the half-year, for the match with the M.C.C. It was the first time I had ever played there, and of course I was very full of it, and fancied the match the most important event which was occurring in England the time. One of our Eleven did not turn up, and George was allowed to play for us. He was, as usual, a tower of strength in a boys’ Eleven, because you could rely on his nerve. When the game was going badly, he was always put in to keep up his wicket, and very seldom failed to do it. On this occasion we were in together, and he made a long score, but, I thought, did not play quite in his usual style; and on talking the matter over with him when we got home, I found that he had not been playing at Oxford, but had taken to boating.
I expressed my sorrow at this, and spoke36 disparagingly37 of boating, of which I knew nothing whatever. We certainly had a punt in the stream at home, but it was too narrow for oars39, and I scarcely knew a stretcher from a rowlock. He declared that he was as fond of cricket as ever, but that in the whole range of sport, even including[66] hunting, there was no excitement like a good neck-and-neck boat-race, and that I should come to think so too.
At this time his boating career had only just begun, and rowing was rather at a discount at Oxford. For several years Cambridge had had their own way with the dark blues40, notably41 in this very year of 1841. But a radical42 reformer had just appeared at Oxford, whose influence has lasted to the present day, and to whom the substitution of the long stroke with sharp catch at the beginning (now universally accepted as the only true form) for the short, digging “waterman’s” stroke, as it used to be called, is chiefly due. This was Fletcher Menzies, then captain of the University College boat. He had already begun to train a crew on his own principles, in opposition43 to the regular University crew, and, amongst others, had selected my brother, though a freshman, and had taken him frequently down the river behind himself in a pair-oar38. The first result of this instruction was, that my brother won the University pair-oar race, pulling stroke to another freshman of his own college.
In Michaelmas Term, 1841, it became clear to all judges of rowing that the opposition was triumphant44. F. Menzies was elected captain of the O. U. B. C., and chose my brother as his No. 7, so that on my arrival at Oxford in the spring of 1842, I found him training in the University crew. The race with Cambridge was then rowed in the summer, and over the six-mile course, between Westminster[67] and Putney bridges. This year the day selected was the 12th of June. I remember it well, for I was playing at the same time in the Oxford and Cambridge match at Lord’s. The weather was intensely hot, and we were getting badly beaten. So confident were our opponents in the prowess of their University, that, at dinner in the Pavilion, they were offering even bets that Cambridge would win all three events—the cricket match, the race at Westminster, and the Henley Cup, which was to be rowed for in the following week. This was too much for us, and the bets were freely taken; I myself, for the first and last time in my life, betting five pounds with the King’s man who sat next me. Before our match was over the news came up from the river that Oxford had won.
It was the last race ever rowed by the Universities over the long six-mile course. To suit the tide, it was rowed down, from Putney to Westminster Bridge. My brother unluckily lost his straw hat at the start, and the intense heat on his head caused him terrible distress45. The boats were almost abreast46 down to the Battersea reach, where there were a number of lighters47 moored48 in mid49 stream, waiting for the tide. This was the crisis of the race. As the boats separated, each taking its own side, Egan, the Cambridge coxswain, called on his crew: Shadwell, the Oxford coxswain, heard him, and called on his own men, and when the boats came in sight of each other again from behind the lighters, Oxford was well ahead. But my[68] brother was getting faint from the effects of the sun on his head, when Shadwell reminded him of the slice of lemon which was placed in each man’s thwart50. He snatched it up, and at the same time F. Menzies took off his own hat and gave it him; and, when the boat shot under Westminster Bridge with a clear lead, he was quite himself again.
In our college boat—of which he was now stroke, and which he took with a brilliant rush to the head of the river, bumping University, the leading boat, to which his captain, F. Menzies, was still stroke, after two very severe races—he always saw that every man had a small slice of lemon at the start, in memory of the Battersea reach.
Next year (1843), owing to a dispute about the time, there was no University race over the London course, but the crews were to meet at the Henley Regatta. The meeting was looked forward to with more than ordinary interest, as party feeling was running high between the Universities. In the previous year, after their victory in London, the Oxford boat had gone to Henley, but had withdrawn51, in consequence of a decision of the stewards52, allowing a man to row in the Cambridge crew who had already rowed in a previous heat, in another boat. So the cup remained in the possession of the Cambridge Rooms, a London rowing club, composed of men who had left college, and of the best oarsmen still at the University. If the Cambridge Rooms could hold the challenge cup this year also, it would become[69] their property. But we had little fear of this, as Menzies’ crew was in better form than ever. He had beaten Cambridge University in 1842, and we were confident would do it again; and, as the Rooms were never so strong as the University, we had no doubt as to the result of the final heat also. I remember walking over from Oxford the night before the regatta, with a friend, full of these hopes, and the consternation53 with which we heard, on arriving at the town, that the Cambridge University boat had withdrawn, so that the best men might be draughted from it into the Rooms’ crew, the holders55 of the cup. Those only who have felt the extraordinary interest which these contests excite can appreciate the dismay with which this announcement filled us. Our boat would, by this arrangement, have to contend with the picked oars of two first-class crews; and we forgot that, after all, though the individual men were better, the fact of their not having trained regularly together made them really less formidable competitors. But far worse news came in the morning. F. Menzies had been in the Schools in the previous month, and the strain of his examination, combined with training for the race, had been too much for him. He was down with a bad attack of fever. What was to be done? It was settled at once that my brother should row stroke, and a proposal was made that the vacant place in the boat should be filled by one of Menzies’ college crew. The question went before the stewards,[70] who, after long deliberation, determined56 that this could not be allowed. In consequence of the dispute in the previous year, they had decided57, that only those oarsmen whose names had been sent in could row in any given race. I am not sure where the suggestion came from, I believe from Menzies himself, that his crew should row the race with seven oars; but I well remember the indignation and despair with which the final announcement was received.
However, there was no help for it, and we ran down the bank to the starting-place by the side of our crippled boat, with sad hearts, cheering them to show our appreciation58 of their pluck, but without a spark of hope as to the result. When they turned to take up their place for the start, we turned also, and went a few hundred yards up the towing-path, so as to get start enough to enable us to keep up with the race. The signal-gun was fired, and we saw the oars flash in the water, and began trotting59 up the bank with our heads turned over our shoulders. First one, and then another, cried out that “we were holding our own,” that “light blue was not gaining.” In another minute they were abreast of us, close together, but the dark blue flag the least bit to the front. A third of the course was over, and, as we rushed along and saw the lead improved foot by foot, almost inch by inch, hope came back, and the excitement made running painful. In another minute, as they turned the corner and got into the straight reach, the[71] crowd became too dense60 for running. We could not keep up, and could only follow with our eyes and shouts, as we pressed up towards the bridge. Before we could reach it the gun fired, and the dark blue flag was run up, showing that Oxford had won.
Then followed one of the temporary fits of delirium61 which sometimes seize Englishmen, the sight of which makes one slow to disbelieve any crazy story which is told of the doings of other people in moments of intense excitement. The crew had positively62 to fight their way into their hotel, and barricade64 themselves there, to escape being carried round Henley on our shoulders. The enthusiasm, frustrated65 in this direction, burst out in all sorts of follies66, of which you may take this as a specimen. The heavy toll-gate was pulled down, and thrown over the bridge into the river, by a mob of young Oxonians headed by a small, decorous, shy man in spectacles, who had probably never pulled an oar in his life, but who had gone temporarily mad with excitement, and I am confident would, at that moment, have led his followers67 not only against the Henley constables68, but against a regiment69 with fixed70 bayonets. Fortunately, no harm came of it but a few broken heads and black eyes, and the local authorities, making allowances for the provocation71, were lenient72 at the next petty sessions.
The crew went up to London from Henley, to row for the Gold Cup, in the Thames Regatta, which had just been[72] established. Here they met the Cambridge Rooms’ crew again, strengthened by a new No. 3 and a new stroke, and the Leander, then in its glory, and won the cup after one of the finest and closest races ever rowed. There has been much discussion as to these two races ever since in the boating world, in which my brother was on one occasion induced to take part. “The Oxford University came in first,” was his account, “with a clear lead of the Leander, the Cambridge crew overlapping73 the Leander. We were left behind at the start, and had great difficulty in passing our opponents, not from want of pace, but from want of room.” And, speaking of the Henley race, which was said to have been won against a “scratch crew,” he adds: “A ‘scratch crew’ may mean anything short of a perfectly trained crew of good materials. Anyone who cares about it will find the names of the Rooms’ crew at p. 100 of Mr. Macmichael’s book, and by consulting the index will be able to form a judgment74 as to the quality of our opponents. We had a very great respect for them. I never attempted to exaggerate the importance of the ‘seven oars’ race,’ and certainly never claimed to have beaten a Cambridge University crew on that occasion.” It will always remain, however, one of the most interesting of the heroic records of a noble English sport.
He announced his own triumphs at home as follows, from the Golden Cross, where the Oxford crew then stopped:—
[73]
“My dear Father and Mother,—I should have been with you yesterday, but was obliged to wait because they had not finished the gold oars which we have won at Putney. We have been as successful here as we were at Henley, and I hope I shall bring home the cup to show you. I shall be home to-morrow, and very glad to get to Donnington again. I don’t feel the least unsettled by these proceedings75, and am in an excellent humour for reading.”
The two great cups came to Donnington, and remained for the year on your grandfather’s sideboard, who could never quite make up his mind about them; pride at his son’s extraordinary prowess being dashed with fears as to the possible effects on him. George himself, at this time, certainly had no idea that he was at all the worse for it, and maintained in his letters that pulling “is not so severe exercise as boxing or fencing hard for an hour.” “You may satisfy yourselves I shall not overdo76 it. I have always felt the better for it as yet, but if I were to feel the least inconvenience I should give it up at once.”
One effect the seven-oar race had on our generation at Oxford: it made boating really popular, which it had not been till then. I, amongst others, was quite converted to my brother’s opinion, and began to spend all my spare time on the water. Our college entered for the University four-oar races in the following November Term, and, to my intense delight, I was selected for No. 2, my brother pulling stroke.
[74]
Our first heat was against Balliol, and through my awkwardness it proved to be the hardest race my brother ever rowed. At the second stroke after the start I caught a crab77 (to use boating phrase), and such a bad one that the head of our boat was forced almost into the bank, and we lost not a stroke or two, but at least a dozen, Balliol going away with a lead of two boats’ lengths and more. Few strokes would have gone on in earnest after this, and I am not sure that my brother would, but that it was my first race for a University prize. As it was, he turned round, took a look at Balliol, and just said, “Shove her head out! Now then,” and away we went. Of course I was burning with shame, and longing78 to do more than my utmost to make up for my clumsiness. The boat seemed to spring under us, but I could feel it was no doing of mine. Just before the Gut79 we were almost abreast of them, but, as they had the choice of water, we were pushed out into mid stream, losing half a boat’s length, and having now to pull up against the full current while Balliol went up on the Oxford side under the willows80. Our rivals happened also to be personal friends, and I remember well becoming conscious as we struggled up the reach that I was alongside, first of their stroke, the late Sir H. Lambert, then of No. 3, W. Spottiswoode, and at last, as we came to the Cherwell, just before the finish, of our old schoolfellow, T. Walrond, who was pulling the bow oar. I felt that the race was won, for they had now to come across to us; and won it was, but only by a few feet.[75] I don’t think the rest of us were much more distressed81 than we had been before in college races. But my brother’s head drooped82 forward, and he could not speak for several seconds. I should have learnt then, if I had needed to learn, that it is the stroke who wins boat races.
Our next heat against University, the holders of the cup was a much easier affair. We won by some lengths, and my brother had thus carried off every honour which an oarsman can win at the University, except the sculls, for which he had never been able to enter. I cannot remember any race in which he pulled stroke and was beaten.
There are few pleasanter memories in my life than those of the river-side, when we were training behind him in our college crew. He was perhaps a thought too easy, and did not keep us quite so tightly in hand as the captains of some of the other leading boats kept their men. But the rules of training were then barbarous, and I think we were all the better for not being strictly83 limited even in the matter of a draught54 of cold water, or compelled to eat our meat half cooked. He was most judicious84 in all the working part of training, and no man ever knew better when to give his crew the long Abingdon reach, and when to be content with Iffley or Sandford. At the half-hour’s rest at those places he would generally sit quiet, and watch the skittles, wrestling, quoits, or feats85 of strength which were going on all about. But if he did take part in them, he almost always beat everyone else. I only remember[76] one occasion on which he was fairly foiled. In consequence of his intimacy86 with F. Menzies, our crew were a great deal with that of University College, and much friendly rivalry87 existed between us. One afternoon one of their crew,[10] R. Mansfield, brother of George’s old vaulting88 antagonist89, rode down to Sandford, where, in the field near the inn, there was always a furze hurdle90 for young gentlemen to leap over. In answer to some chaffing remark, Mansfield turned round, and, sitting with his face towards his horse’s tail, rode him over this hurdle. Several of us tried it after him, George amongst the number, but we all failed; and of course declared that it was all a trick, and that his horse was trained to do it under him, and to refuse under anybody else.
[10] Author of “The Log of the Water Lily,” &c.
The four-oar race was the last of my brother’s boating triumphs. At the end of the term he gave up rowing, as his last year was beginning, and he was anxious to get more time for his preparation for the Schools. I am not sure that he succeeded in this as, strong exercise of some kind being a necessity to him, he took to playing an occasional game at cricket, and was caught and put into the University Eleven. He pulled, however, in one more great race, in the Thames Regatta of 1845, when he was still resident as a bachelor, attending lectures. Number 6 in the Oxford boat broke down, and his successor applied91 to him to fill the place, to which he assented92 rather unwillingly93.[77] The following extract from a letter to his father gives the result, and the close of his boating career:—
“You will have seen that Oxford was unsuccessful in London for the Grand Cup, but I really think we should have won it had it not been for that unlucky foul94. I only consented to take an oar in the boat because they said they could not row without me, and found myself well up to the work.”
He always retained his love for rowing, and came up punctually every year to take his place on the umpire’s boat at the University race, to which he had a prescriptive claim as an old captain of the O.U.B.C. And this chapter may fitly close with a boating song, the best of its kind that I know of, which he wrote at my request. It appeared in Mr. Severn’s “Almanac of English Sports,” published at Christmas 1868. I had rashly promised the editor to give him some verses for March, on the University race, and put it off till it was time to go to press. When my time was limited by days, and I had to sit down to my task in the midst of other work, I found that the knack95 of rhyming had left me, and turned naturally to the brother who had helped me in many a copy of verses thirty years back. I sent him down some dozen hobbling lines, and within a post or two I received from him the following, on the March Boat Race:—
[78]
The wood sways and rocks in the fierce Equinox,
The old heathen war-god bears rule in the sky,
At the height of the house-tops the cloud-rack spins by.
And crowd every nook on bridge, steamboat, and shore,
With cheering to greet Cam and Isis, who meet
For the Derby of boating, our fête of the oar.
“Off jackets!”—each oarsman springs light to his seat,
And we veterans, while ever more fierce beats the rain,
And live the bright days of our youth once again.
Tho’ lumpy the water and furious the wind,
Against a “dead noser”[11] our champions can row, Sir,
And leave the poor “Citizens” panting behind.
“Swing together!” The Crab-tree, Barnes, Chiswick are past;
Now Mortlake—and hark to the signaling gun!
While the victors, hard all, long and strong to the last,
Rush past Barker’s rails, and our Derby is won.
Our Derby, unsullied by fraud and chicane,
Our Derby, where “nobbling” and “roping” are vain,
Where all run their best, and the best men must win.
Gold rules not the fate of our Isthmian games;
In brutes—tho’ the noblest—we place no reliance;
Our racers are men, and our turf is the Thames.
[79]
The sons of St. Dennis in praise of their tennis,
Let the chiels wi’ no trousers crack on as they will.
Cricket, football, and rackets—but hold, I’ll not preach,
Every man to his fancy:—I’m too old to mend—
So give me a good stretch down the Abingdon reach,
Six miles every inch, and “hard all” to the end.
Then row, dear Etonians and Westminsters, row,
Labuan,[12] New Zealand, your chasubles[13] peel, and
Of glory departed and influence flown—
Row and work, boys of England, on rivers and seas,
And the old land shall hold, firm as ever, her own.
[11] “Dead noser,” the Tyne phrase for a wind in your teeth.
[12] The Bishops109 were famous oarsmen. Dr. Macdougal rowed bow oar in Menzies’ boat, and was a dear friend of my brother’s.
[13] Query110: Do Bishops wear “chasubles?”—G.E.H. [Note appended by my brother to the original copy.]
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Oxford
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undoubtedly
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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interfered
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distinguished
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maker
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chronometer
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considerably
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swap
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freshmen
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honourable
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deference
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instinctive
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remarkable
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perfectly
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chapel
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eschews
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cliques
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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equestrian
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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22
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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23
memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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24
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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28
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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29
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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30
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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31
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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32
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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33
brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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34
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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35
freshman
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| n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
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36
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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37
disparagingly
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| adv.以贬抑的口吻，以轻视的态度 | |
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38
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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39
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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40
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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41
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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42
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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43
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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44
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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46
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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lighters
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| n.打火机，点火器( lighter的名词复数 ) | |
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48
moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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49
mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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50
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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51
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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52
stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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53
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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54
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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holders
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| 支持物( holder的名词复数 )； 持有者； （支票等）持有人； 支托（或握持）…之物 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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57
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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58
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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59
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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60
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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61
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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63
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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64
barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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frustrated
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| 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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66
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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67
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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68
constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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69
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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71
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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72
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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73
overlapping
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| adj./n.交迭（的） | |
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74
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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75
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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76
overdo
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| vt.把...做得过头，演得过火 | |
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77
crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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78
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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79
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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80
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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81
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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82
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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84
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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85
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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86
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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87
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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88
vaulting
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| n.（天花板或屋顶的）拱形结构 | |
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89
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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90
hurdle
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| n.跳栏，栏架；障碍，困难；vi.进行跨栏赛 | |
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91
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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92
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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94
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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95
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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96
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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97
sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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98
bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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99
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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100
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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101
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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102
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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103
dodges
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| n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 )；躲避；伎俩；妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 )；回避 | |
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104
brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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105
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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106
craftsmen
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| n. 技工 | |
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107
spurt
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| v.喷出；突然进发；突然兴隆 | |
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108
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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109
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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110
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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