This narrative1 which I am now writing is neither more nor less than an account of what befell certain of my acquaintances during a period extending over nearly, or quite, twenty years, interspersed2, and let us hope embellished3, with descriptions of the country in which these circumstances took place, and illustrated5 by conversations well known to me by frequent repetition, selected as throwing light upon the characters of the persons concerned. Episodes there are, too, which I have thought it worth while to introduce as being more or less interesting, as bearing on the manners of a country but little known, out of which materials it is difficult to select those most proper to make my tale coherent; yet such has been my object, neither to dwell on the one hand unnecessarily on the more unimportant passages, nor on the other hand to omit anything which may be supposed to bear on the general course of events.
Now, during all the time above mentioned, I, Geoffry Hamlyn, have happened to lead a most uninteresting, and with few exceptions prosperous existence. I was but little concerned, save as a hearer, in the catalogue of exciting accidents and offences which I chronicle. I have looked on with the deepest interest at the lovemaking, and ended a bachelor; I have witnessed the fighting afar off, only joining the battle when I could not help it, yet I am a steady old fogey, with a mortal horror of a disturbance6 of any sort. I have sat drinking with the wine-bibbers, and yet at sixty my hand is as steady as a rock. Money has come to me by mere7 accumulation; I have taken more pains to spend it than to make it; in short, all through my life’s drama, I have been a spectator, and not an actor, and so in this story I shall keep myself as much as possible in the background, only appearing personally when I cannot help it.
Acting8 on this resolve I must now make my CONGE, and bid you farewell for a few years, and go back to those few sheep which James Stockbridge and I own in the wilderness9, and continue the history of those who are more important than myself. I must push on too, for there is a long period of dull stupid prosperity coming to our friends at Baroona and Toonarbin, which we must get over as quickly as is decent. Little Sam Buckley also, though at present a most delightful10 child, will soon be a mere uninteresting boy. We must teach him to read and write, and ride, and what not, as soon as possible, and see if we can’t find a young lady — well, I won’t anticipate, but go on. Go on, did I say? — jump on, rather — two whole years at once.
See Baroona now. Would you know it? I think not. That hut where we spent the pleasant Christmas-day you know of is degraded into the kitchen, and seems moved backward, although it stands in the same place, for a new house is built nearer the river, quite overwhelming the old slab11 hut in its grandeur12 — a long low wooden house, with deep cool verandahs all round, already festooned with passion-flowers, and young grapevines, and fronted by a flower garden, all a-blaze with petunias13 and geraniums.
It was a summer evening, and all the French windows reaching to the ground were open to admit the cool south wind, which had just come up, deliciously icily cold after a scorching14 day. In the verandah sat the Major and the Doctor over their claret (for the Major had taken to dining late again now, to his great comfort), and in the garden were Mrs. Buckley and Sam watering the flowers, attended by a man who drew water from a new-made reservoir near the house.
“I think, Doctor,” said the Major, “that the habit of dining in the middle of the day is a gross abuse of the gifts of Providence15, and I’ll prove it to you. What does a man dine for? — answer me that.”
“To satisfy his hunger, I should say,” answered the Doctor.
“Pooh! pooh! stuff and nonsense, my good friend,” said the Major; “you are speaking at random16. I suppose you will say, then, that a black fellow is capable of dining?”
“Highly capable, as far as I can judge from what I have seen,” replied the Doctor. “A full-grown fighting black would be ashamed if he couldn’t eat a leg of mutton at a sitting.”
“And you call that DINING?” said the Major. “I call it gorging17. Why, those fellows are more uncomfortable after food than before. I have seen them sitting close before the fire and rubbing their stomachs with mutton fat to reduce the swelling18. Ha! ha! ha! — dining, eh? Oh, Lord!”
“Then if you don’t dine to satisfy your hunger, what the deuce do you eat dinners for at all?” asked the Doctor.
“Why,” said the Major, spreading his legs out before him with a benign19 smile, and leaning back in his chair, “I eat my dinner, not so much for the sake of the dinner itself, as for the after-dinnerish feeling which follows: a feeling that you have nothing to do, and that if you had you’d be shot if you’d do it. That, to return to where I started from, is why I won’t dine in in the middle of the day.”
“If that is the way you feel after dinner, I certainly wouldn’t.”
“All the most amiable20 feelings in the human breast,” continued the Major, “are brought out in their full perfection by dinner. If a fellow were to come to me now and ask me to lend him ten pounds, I’d do it, provided, you know, that he would fetch out the cheque-book and pen and ink.”
“Laziness is nothing,” said the Doctor, “unless well carried out. I only contradicted you, however, to draw you out; I agree entirely21. Do you know, my friend, I am getting marvellously fond of this climate.”
“So am I. But then you know, Doctor, that we are sheltered from the north wind here by the snow-ranges. The summer in Sydney, now, is perfectly22 infernal. The dust is so thick you can’t see your hand before you.”
“So I believe,” said the Doctor. “By the bye, I got a new butterfly today; rather an event, mind you, here, where there are so few.”
“What is he?”
“An Hipparchia,” said the Doctor, “Sam saw him first and gave chase.”
“You seem to be making quite a naturalist23 of my boy, Doctor. I am sincerely obliged to you. If we can make him take to that sort of thing it may keep him out of much mischief24.”
“He will never get into much,” said the Doctor, “unless I am mistaken; he is the most docile25 child I ever came across. It is a pleasure to be with him. What are you going to do with him?”
“He must go to school, I am afraid,” said the Major with a sigh, “I can’t bring my heart to part with him; but his mother has taught him all she knows, so I suppose he must go to school and fight, and get flogged, and come home with a pipe in his mouth, and an oath on his lips, with his education completed. I don’t fancy his staying here among these convict servants, when he is old enough to learn mischief.”
“He’ll learn as much mischief at a colonial school, I expect,” said the Doctor, “and more too. All the evil he hears from these fellows will be like the water on a duck’s back; whereas, if you send him to school in a town, he’ll learn a dozen vices26 he’ll never hear of here. Get him a tutor.”
“That is easier said than done, Doctor. It is very hard to get a respectable tutor in the colony.”
“Here is one at your hand,” said the Doctor. “Take me.”
“My dear friend,” said the Major, jumping up, “I would not have dared to ask such a thing. If you would undertake him for a short time?”
“I will undertake the boy’s education altogether. Potztausend, and why not! It will be a labour of love, and therefore the more thoroughly27 done. What shall he learn, now?”
“That I must leave to you.”
“A weighty responsibility,” said the Doctor. “No Latin or Greek, I suppose? They will be no use to him here.”
“Well — no; I suppose not. But I should like him to learn his Latin grammar. You may depend upon it there’s something in the Latin grammar.”
“What use has it been to you, Major?”
“Why, the least advantage it has been to me is to give me an insight into the construction of languages, which is some use. But while I was learning the Latin grammar, I learnt other things besides, of more use than the construction of any languages, living or dead. First, I learnt that there were certain things in this world that MUST be done. Next, that there were people in this world, of whom the Masters of Eton were a sample, whose orders must be obeyed without question. Third, I found that it was pleasanter in all ways to do one’s duty than to leave it undone28. And last, I found out how to bear a moderate amount of birching without any indecent outcry.”
“All very useful things,” said the Doctor. “Teach a boy one thing well, and you show him how to learn others. History, I suppose?”
“As much as you like, Doctor. His mother has taught him his catechism, and all that sort of thing, and she is the fit person, you know. With the exception of that and the Latin grammar, I trust everything to your discretion29.”
“There is one thing I leave to you, Major, if you please, and that is corporal chastisement30. I am not at all sure that I could bring myself to flog Sam, and, if I did, it would be very inefficiently31 done.”
“Oh, I’ll undertake it,” said the Major, “though I believe I shall have an easy task. He won’t want much flogging.”
At this moment Mrs. Buckley approached with a basketful of fresh-gathered flowers. “The roses don’t flower well here, Doctor,” she said, “but the geraniums run mad. Here is a salmon-coloured one for your button-hole.”
“He has earned it well, Agnes,” said her husband. “He has decided32 the discussion we had last night by offering to undertake Sam’s education himself.”
“And God’s blessing33 on him for it!” said Mrs. Buckley warmly. “You have taken a great load off my mind, Doctor. I should never have been happy if that boy had gone to school. Come here, Sam.”
Sam came bounding into the verandah, and clambered up on his father, as if he had been a tree. He was now eleven years old, and very tall and wellformed for his age. He was a good-looking boy, with regular features, and curly chestnut34 hair. He had, too, the large grey-blue eye of his father, an eye that never lost for a moment its staring expression of kindly35 honesty, and the lad’s whole countenance36 was one which, without being particularly handsome, or even very intelligent, won an honest man’s regard at first sight.
“My dear Sam,” said his mother, “leave off playing with your father’s hair, and listen to me, for I have something serious to say to you. Last night your father and I were debating about sending you to school, but Doctor Mulhaus has himself offered to be your tutor, thereby37 giving you advantages, for love, which you never could have secured for money. Now, the least we can expect of you, my dear boy, is that you will be docile and attentive38 to him.”
“I will try, Doctor dear,” said Sam. “But I am very stupid sometimes, you know.”
So the good Doctor, whose head was stored with nearly as much of human knowledge as mortal head could hold, took simple, guileless little Sam by the hand, and led him into the garden of knowledge. Unless I am mistaken, these two will pick more flowers than they will dig potatoes in the aforesaid garden, but I don’t think that two such honest souls will gather much unwholesome fruit. The danger is that they will waste their time, which is no danger at all, but a certainty.
I believe that such an education as our Sam got from the Doctor would have made a slattern and a faineant out of half the boys in England. If Sam had been a clever boy, or a conceited39 boy, he would have ended with a superficial knowledge of things in general, imagining he knew everything when he knew nothing, and would have been left in the end, without a faith either religious or political, a useless, careless man.
This danger the Doctor foresaw in the first month, and going to the Major abruptly40, as he walked up and down the garden, took his arm, and said —
“See here, Buckley. I have undertaken to educate that boy of yours, and every day I like the task better, and yet every day I see that I have undertaken something beyond me. His appetite for knowledge is insatiable, but he is not an intellectual boy; he makes no deductions41 of his own, but takes mine for granted. He has no commentary on what he learns, but that of a dissatisfied idealist like me, a man who has been thrown among circumstances sufficiently42 favourable43 to make a prime minister out of some men, and yet who has ended by doing nothing. Another thing: this is my first attempt at education, and I have not the schoolmaster’s art to keep him to details. Every day I make new resolutions, and every day I break them. The boy turns his great eyes upon me in the middle of some humdrum44 work, and asks me a question. In answering, I get off the turnpike road, and away we go from lane to lane, from one subject to another, until lesson-time is over, and nothing done. And, if it were merely time wasted, it could be made up, but he remembers every word I say, and believes in it like gospel, when I myself couldn’t remember half of it to save my life. Now, my dear fellow, I consider your boy to be a very sacred trust to me, and so I have mentioned all this to you, to give you an opportunity of removing him to where he might be under a stricter discipline, if you thought fit. If he was like some boys, now, I should resign my post at once but, as it is, I shall wait till you turn me out, for two reasons. The first is, that I take such delight in my task, that I do not care to relinquish45 it; and the other is, that the lad is naturally so orderly and gentle, that he does not need discipline, like most boys.”
“My dear Doctor,” replied Major Buckley, “listen to me. If we were in England, and Sam could go to Eton, which, I take it you know, is the best school in the world, I would still earnestly ask you to continue your work. He will probably inherit a great deal of money, and will not have to push his way in the world by his brains; so that close scholarship will be rather unnecessary. I should like him to know history well and thoroughly; for he may mix in the political life of this little colony by and by. Latin grammar, you know,” he said, laughing, “is indispensable. Doctor, I trust my boy with you because I know that you will make him a gentleman, as his mother, with God’s blessing, will make him a Christian46.”
So, the Doctor buckled47 to his task again, with renewed energy; to Euclid, Latin grammar, and fractions. Sam’s good memory enabled him to make light of the grammar, and the fractions too were no great difficulty, but the Euclid was an awful trial. He couldn’t make out what it was all about. He got on very well until he came nearly to the end of the first book, and then getting among the parallelogram “props,” as we used to call them (may their fathers’ graves be defiled48!), he stuck dead. For a whole evening did he pore patiently over one of them till A B, setting to C D, crossed hands, poussetted, and whirled round “in Sahara waltz” through his throbbing49 head. Bed-time, but no rest! Whether he slept or not he could not tell. Who could sleep with that long-bodied, ill-tempered-looking parallelogram A H standing50 on the bed-clothes, and crying out, in tones loud enough to waken the house, that it never had been, nor never would be equal to the fat jolly square C K? So, in the morning, Sam woke to the consciousness that he was farther off from the solution than ever, but, having had a good cry, went into the study and tackled to it again.
No good! Breakfast time, and matters much worse! That long peaked-nose vixen of a triangle A H C, which yesterday Sam had made out was equal to half the parallelogram and half the square, now had the audacity51 to declare that she had nothing to do with either of them; so what was to be done now?
After breakfast Sam took his book and went out to his father, who was sitting smoking in the verandah. He clambered up on to his knee, and then began:—
“Father, dear, see here; can you understand this? You’ve got to prove, you know — oh, dear! I’ve forgot that now.”
“Let’s see,” said the Major; “I am afraid this is a little above me. There’s Brentwood, now, could do it; he was in the Artillery52, you know, and learnt fortification, and that sort of thing. I don’t think I can make much hand of it, Sam.”
But Sam had put his head upon his father’s shoulder, and was crying bitterly.
“Come, come, my old man,” said the Major, “don’t give way, you know; don’t be beat.”
“I can’t make it out at all,” said Sam, sobbing53. “I’ve got such a buzzing in my head with it! And if I can’t do it I must stop; because I can’t go on to the next till I understand this. Oh, dear me!”
“Lay your head there a little, my boy, till it gets clearer; then perhaps you will be able to make it out. You may depend on it that you ought to learn it, or the good Doctor wouldn’t have set it to you: never let a thing beat you, my son.”
So Sam cried on his father’s shoulder a little, and then went in with his book; and not long after, the Doctor looked in unperceived, and saw the boy with his elbows on the table and the book before him. Even while he looked a big tear fell plump into the middle of A H; so the Doctor came quietly in and said —
“Can’t you manage it, Sam?”
Sam shook his head.
“Just give me hold of the book; will you, Sam?”
Sam complied without word or comment; the Doctor sent it flying through the open window, halfway54 down the garden. “There!” said he, nodding his head, “that’s the fit place for him this day: you’ve had enough of him at present; go and tell one of the blacks to dig some worms, and we’ll make holiday and go a fishing.”
Sam looked at the Doctor, and then through the window at his old enemy lying in the middle of the flowerbed. He did not like to see the poor book, so lately his master, crumpled55 and helpless, fallen from its high estate so suddenly. He would have gone to its assistance, and picked it up and smoothed it, the more so as he felt that he had been beaten.
The Doctor seemed to see everything. “Let it lie here, my child,” he said; “you are not in a position to assist a fallen enemy; you are still the vanquished56 party. Go and get the worms.”
He went, and when he came back he found the Doctor sitting beside his father in the verandah, with a penknife in one hand and the ace4 of spades in the other. He cut the card into squares, triangles, and parallelograms, while Sam looked on, and, demonstrating as he went, fitted them one into the other, till the boy saw his bugbear of a proposition made as clear as day before his eyes.
“Why,” said Sam, “that’s all as clear as need be. I understand it. Now may I pick the book up, Doctor?”
History was the pleasantest part of all Sam’s tasks, for they would sit in the little room given up for a study, with the French windows open looking on the flower-garden, Sam reading aloud and the Doctor making discursive57 commentaries. At last, one day the Doctor said —
“My boy, we are making too much of a pleasure of this: you must really learn your dates. Now tell me the date of the accession of Edward the Sixth.”
No returns.
“Ah! I thought so: we must not be so discursive. We’ll learn the dates of the Grecian History, as being an effort of memory, you not having read it yet.”
But this plan was rather worse than the other; for one morning, Sam having innocently asked, at half-past eleven, what the battle of Thermopylae was, Mrs. Buckley coming in, at one, to call them to lunch, found the Doctor, who had begun the account of that glorious fight in English, and then gone on to German, walking up and down the room in a state of excitement, reciting to Sam, who did not know delta58 from psi, the soul-moving account of it from Herodotus in good sonorous59 Greek. She asked, laughing, “What language are you talking now, my dear Doctor?”
“Greek, madam, Greek! and the very best of Greek!”
“And what does Sam think of it? I should like you to learn Greek, my boy, if you can.”
“I thought he was singing, mother,” said Sam; but after that the lad used to sit delighted, by the river side, when they were fishing, while the Doctor, with his musical voice, repeated some melodious60 ode of Pindar’s.
And so the intellectual education proceeded, with more or less energy; and meanwhile the physical and moral part was not forgotten, though the two latter, like the former, were not very closely attended to, and left a good deal to Providence. (And, having done your best for a boy, in what better hands can you leave him?) But the Major, as an old soldier, had gained a certain faith in the usefulness of physical training; so, when Sam was about twelve, you might have seen him any afternoon on the lawn, with his father, the Major, patiently teaching him singlestick, and Sam as patiently learning, until the boy came to be so marvellously active on his legs, and to show such rapidity of eye and hand, that the Major, on one occasion, having received a more than usually agonizing61 cut on the forearm, remarked that he thought he was not quite so active on his pins as formerly62, and that he must hand the boy over to the Doctor.
“Doctor,” said he that day, “I have taught my boy ordinary sword play till, by Jove, sir, he is getting quicker than I am. I wish you would take him in hand and give him a little fencing.”
“Who told you I could fence?” said the Doctor.
“Why, I don’t know; no one, I think. I have judged, I fancy, more by seeing you flourish your walking-stick than anything else. You are a fencer, are you not?”
The Doctor laughed. He was, in fact, a consummate63 MAITRE D’ARMES; and Captain Brentwood, before spoken of, no mean fencer, coming to Baroona on a visit, found that our friend could do exactly as he liked with him, to the Captain’s great astonishment64. And Sam soon improved under his tuition, not indeed to the extent of being a master of the weapon; he was too large and loosely built for that; but, at all events, so far as to gain an upright and elastic65 carriage, and to learn the use of his limbs.
The Major issued an edict, giving the most positive orders against its infringement66, that Sam should never mount a horse without his special leave and licence. He taught him to ride, indeed, but would not give him much opportunity for practising it. Once or twice a-week he would take him out, but seldom oftener. Sam, who never dreamt of questioning the wisdom and excellence67 of any of his father’s decisions, rather wondered at this; pondering in his own mind how it was that, while all the lads he knew around, now getting pretty numerous, lived, as it were, on horseback, never walking a quarter of a mile on any occasion, he alone should be discouraged from it. “Perhaps,” he said to himself one day, “he doesn’t want me to make many acquaintances. Its true, Charley Delisle smokes and swears, which is very ungentlemanly; but Cecil Mayford, Dad says, is a perfect little gentleman, and I ought to see as much of him as possible, and yet he wouldn’t give me a horse to go to their muster68. Well, I suppose he has some reason for it.”
One holiday the Doctor and the Major were sitting in the verandah after breakfast, when Sam entered to them, and, clambering on to his father as his wont69 was, said —
“See here, father! Harry70 is getting in some young beasts at the stockyard hut, and Cecil Mayford is coming over to see if any of theirs are among them; may I go out and meet him?”
“To be sure, my boy; why not?”
“May I have Bronsewing, father? He is in the stable.”
“It is a nice cool day, and only four miles; why not walk out, my boy?”
Sam looked disappointed, but said nothing.
“I know all about it, my child,” said the Major; “Cecil will be there on Blackboy, and you would like to show him that Bronsewing is the superior pony71 of the two. That’s all very natural; but still I say, get your hat, Sam, and trot72 through the forest on your own two legs, and bring Cecil home to dinner.”
Sam still looked disappointed, though he tried not to show it. He went and got his hat, and, meeting the dogs, got such a wild welcome from them that he forgot all about Bronsewing. Soon his father saw him merrily crossing the paddock with the whole kennel73 of the establishment, Kangaroo dogs, cattle dogs, and colleys, barking joyously74 around him.
“There’s a good lesson manfully learnt, Doctor,” said the Major; “he has learnt to sacrifice his will to mine without argument, because he knows I have always a reason for things. I want that boy to ride as little as possible, but he has earned an exception in his favour today. — Jerry!” (After a few calls the stableman appeared.) “Put Mr. Samuel’s saddle on Bronsewing, and mine on Ricochette, and bring them round.”
So Sam, walking cheerily forward singing, under the light and shadow of the old forest, surrounded by his dogs, hears horses’ feet behind him, and looking back sees his father riding and leading Bronsewing saddled.
“Jump up, my boy,” said the Major; “Cecil shall see what Bronsewing is like, and how well you can sit him. The reason I altered my mind was that I might reward you for acting like a man, and not arguing. Now, I don’t want you to ride much yet for a few years. I don’t want my lad to grow up with a pair of bow legs like a groom75, and probably something worse, from living on horseback before his bones are set. You see I have a good reason for what I do.”
But I think that the lessons Sam liked best of all were the swimming lessons, and at a very early age he could swim and dive like a black, and once when disporting76 himself in the water, when not more than thirteen, poor Sam nearly had a stop put to his bathing for ever, and that in a very frightful77 manner.
His father and he had gone down to bathe one hot noon; the Major had swum out and was standing on the rock wiping himself while Sam was still disporting in the mid-river; as he watched the boy he saw what seemed a stick upon the water, and then, as he perceived the ripple78 around it, the horrible truth burst on the affrighted father: it was a large black snake crossing the river, and poor little Sam was swimming straight towards it, all unconscious of his danger.
The Major cried out and waved his hand; the boy, seeing something was wrong, turned and made for the shore, and the next moment his father, bending his body back, hurled79 himself through the air and alighted in the water alongside of him, clutching him round the body, and heading down the river with furious strokes.
“Don’t cling, Sam, or get frightened; make for the shore.”
The lad, although terribly frightened at he knew not what, with infinite courage seconded his father’s efforts although he felt sinking. In a few minutes they were safe on the bank, in time for them to see the reptile80 land, and crawling up the bank disappear among the rocks.
“God has been very good to us, my son. You have been saved from a terrible death. Mind you don’t breathe a word to your mother about this.”
That night Sam dreamt that he was in the coils of a snake, but waking up found that his father was laid beside him in his clothes with one arm round his neck, so he went to sleep again and thought no more of the snake.
“My son, if sinners entice81 thee, consent thou not”— a saying which it is just possible you have heard before. I can tell you where it comes from: it is one of the apothegms of the king of a little eastern nation who at one time were settled in Syria, and whose writings are not much read now-a-days, in consequence of the vast mass of literature of a superior kind which this happy century has produced. I can recommend the book, however, as containing some original remarks, and being generally worth reading. The meaning of the above quotation82 (and the man who said it, mind you, had at one time a reputation for shrewdness) is, as I take it, that a man’s morals are very much influenced by the society he is thrown among; and although in these parliamentary times we know that kings must of necessity be fools, yet in this instance I think that the man shows some glimmerings of reason, for his remark tallies83 singularly with my own personal observation; so, acting on this, while I am giving you the history of this little wild boy of the bush, I cannot do better than give some account of the companions with whom he chiefly assorted84 out of school-hours.
With broad intelligent forehead, with large loving hazel eyes, with a frill like Queen Elizabeth, with a brush like a fox; deep in the brisket, perfect in markings of black, white, and tan; in sagacity a Pitt, in courage an Anglesey, Rover stands first on my list, and claims to be king of Colley-dogs. In politics I should say Conservative of the high Protectionist sort. Let us have no strange dogs about the place to grub up sacred bones, or we will shake out our frills and tumble them in the dust. Domestic cats may mioul in the garden at night to a certain extent, but a line must be drawn85; after that they must be chased up trees and barked at, if necessary, all night. Opossums and native cats are unfit to cumber86 the earth, and must be hunted into holes, wherever possible. Cows and other horned animals must not come into the yard, or even look over the garden fence, under penalties. Black fellows must be barked at, and their dogs chased to the uttermost limits of the habitable globe. Such were the chief points of the creed87 subscribed88 to by Sam’s dog Rover.
All the love that may be between dog and man, and man and dog, existed between Sam and Rover. Never a fresh cheery morning when the boy arose with the consciousness of another happy day before him, but that the dog was waiting for him as he stepped from his window into clear morning air. Never a walk in the forest, but that Rover was his merry companion. And what would lessons have been without Rover looking in now and then with his head on one side, and his ears cocked, to know when he would be finished and come out to play?
Oh, memorable89 day, when Sam got separated from his father in the Yass, and, looking back, saw a cloud of dust in the road, and dimly descried90 Rover, fighting valiantly91 against fearful odds92, with all the dogs in the township upon him! He rode back, and prayed for assistance from the men lounging in front of the publichouse; who, pitying his distress93, pulled off all the dogs till there were only left Rover and a great white bulldog to do battle. The fight seemed going against Sam’s dog; for the bulldog had him by the neck, and held him firm, so that he could do nothing. Nevertheless, mind yourself, master bulldog; you’ve only got a mouthful of long hair there; and when you do let go, I think, there is danger for you in those fierce gleaming eyes, and terrible grinning fangs94.
Sam was crying; and the men round were saying, “Oh! take the bulldog off; the colley’s no good to him,”— when a man suddenly appeared at Sam’s side, and called out,
“I’ll back the colley for five pounds, and here’s my money!”
Half-a-dozen five-pound notes were ready for him at once; and he had barely got the stakes posted before the event proved he was right. In an evil moment for him the bulldog loosed his hold, and, ere he had time to turn round, Rover had seized him below the eye, and was dragging him about the road, worrying him as he would worry an opossum: so the discomfited95 owner had to remove his bulldog to save his life. Rover, after showing his teeth and shaking himself, came to Sam as fresh as a daisy; and the new comer pocketed his five pounds.
“I am so much obliged to you,” said Sam, turning to him, “for taking my dog’s part! They were all against me.”
“I’m much obliged to your dog, sir, for winning me five pound so easy. But there ain’t a many bad dogs, or bad men either, about Major Buckley’s house.”
“Then you know us?” said Sam.
“Ought to it, sir. An old Devonshire man. Mr. Hamlyn’s stud-groom, sir — Dick.”
Well, as I am going to write Rover’s life, in three volumes post octavo, I won’t any further entrench96 on my subject matter, save to say that, while on the subject of Sam’s education, I could not well omit a notice of the aforesaid Rover. For, I think that all a man can learn from a dog, Sam learnt from him; and that is something. Now let us go on to the next of his notable acquaintances.
Who is this glorious, blue-eyed, curly-headed boy, who bursts into the house like a whirlwind, making it ring again with merry laughter? This is Jim Brentwood, of whom we shall see much anon.
At Waterloo, when the French cavalry97 were coming up the hill, and our artillerymen were running for the squares, deftly98 trundling their gun-wheels before them, it happened that there came running towards the square where Major Buckley stood like a tower of strength (the tallest man in the regiment), an artillery officer, begrimed with mud and gunpowder99, and dragging a youth by the collar, or rather, what seemed to be the body of a youth. Some cried out to him to let go; but he looked back, seeming to measure the distance between the cavalry and the square, and then, never loosing his hold, held on against hope. Every one thought he would be too late; when some one ran out of the square (men said it was Buckley), and, throwing the wounded lad over his shoulder, ran with him into safety; and a cheer ran along the line from those who saw him do it. Small time for cheering then; for neither could recover his breath before there came a volley of musketry, and all around them, outside the bayonets, was a wild sea of fierce men’s faces, horses’ heads, gleaming steel, and French blasphemy100. A strange scene for the commencement of an acquaintance! And yet it throve; for that same evening, Buckley, talking to his Colonel, saw the artillery officer coming towards them, and asked who he might be?
“That,” said the Colonel, “is Brentwood of the Artillery, who ran away with Lady Kate Bingley, and they haven’t a rap to bless themselves with, sir. It was her brother that you and he fetched into the square today.”
And so began a friendship which lasted the lives of both men; and, I doubt not, will last their sons’ lives too. For Brentwood lived within thirty miles of the Major, and their sons spent much of their time together, having such a friendship for one another as only boys can have.
Captain Brentwood’s son Jim was a very different boy to Sam, though a very fine fellow too. Mischief and laughter were the apparent objects of his life; and when the Doctor saw him approaching the house, he used to put away Sam’s lesson-books with a sigh and wait for better times. The Captain had himself undertaken his son’s education, and, being a somewhat dreamy man, excessively attached to mathematics, Jim had got, altogether, a very remarkable101 education indeed; which, however, is hardly to our purpose just now. Brentwood, I must say, was a widower102, and a kindhearted, easy-going man; he had, besides, a daughter, who was away at school. Enough of them at present.
The next of Sam’s companions who takes an important part in this history is Cecil Mayford — a delicate, clever little dandy, and courageous103 withal; with more brains in his head, I should say, than Sam and Jim could muster between them. His mother was a widow, who owned the station next down the river from the Buckleys’, distant about five miles, and which, since the death of her husband, Doctor Mayford, she had managed with the assistance of an overseer. She had, besides Cecil, a little daughter of great beauty.
Also, I must here mention that the next station below Mrs. Mayford’s, on the river, distant by the windings104 of the valley fifteen miles, and yet, in consequence of a bend, scarcely ten from Major Buckley’s at Baroona, was owned and inhabited by Yahoos (by name Donovan), with whom we had nothing to do. But this aforesaid station, which is called Garoopna, will shortly fall into other hands, when you will see that many events of deep importance will take place there, and many pleasant hours spent there by all our friends, more particularly one — by name Sam.
“There is one other left of whom I must say something here, and more immediately. The poor, puling little babe, born in misery105 and disaster, Mary Hawker’s boy Charles!”
Toonarbin was but a short ten miles from Baroona, and, of course, the two families were as one. There was always a hostage from the one house staying as a visitor in the other; and, under such circumstances, of course, Charles and Sam were much together, and, as time went on, got to be firm friends.
Charles was two years younger than Sam; the smallest of all the lads, and perhaps the most unhappy. For the truth must be told: he was morose106 and uncertain in his temper; and although all the other boys bore with him most generously, as one whom they had heard was born under some great misfortune, yet he was hardly a favourite amongst them; and the poor boy, sometimes perceiving this, would withdraw from his play, and sulk alone, resisting all the sober, kind inducements of Sam, and the merry, impetuous persuasions107 of Jim, to return.
But he was a kind, good-hearted boy, nevertheless. His temper was not under control; but, after one of his fierce, volcanic108 bursts of ill-humour, he would be acutely miserable109 and angry with himself for days, particularly if the object of it had been Jim or Sam, his two especial favourites. On one occasion, after a causeless fit of anger with Jim, while the three were at Major Buckley’s together, he got his pony and rode away home, secretly speaking to no one. The other two lamented110 all the afternoon that he had taken the matter so seriously, and were debating even next morning going after him to propitiate111 him, when Charles reappeared, having apparently112 quite recovered his temper, but evidently bent113 upon something.
He had a bird, a white corrella, which could talk and whistle surprisingly, probably, in fact, the most precious thing he owned. This prodigy114 he had now brought back in a basket as a peace-offering, and refused to be comforted, unless Jim accepted it as a present.
“But see, Charley,” said Jim, “I was as much in the wrong as you were” (which was not fact, for Jim was perfectly innocent). “I wouldn’t take your bird for the world.”
But Charles said that his mother approved of it, and if Jim didn’t take it he’d let it fly.
“Well, if you will, old fellow,” said Jim, “I’ll tell you what I would rather have. Give me Fly’s dun pup instead, and take the bird home.”
So this was negotiated after a time, and the corrella was taken back to Toonarbin, wildly excited by the journey, and calling for strong liquor all the way home.
Those who knew the sad circumstances of poor Charles’s birth (the Major, the Doctor, and Mrs. Buckley) treated him with such kindness and consideration, that they won his confidence and love. In any of his Berserk fits, if his mother were not at hand, he would go to Mrs. Buckley and open his griefs; and her motherly tact115 and kindness seldom failed to still the wild beatings of that poor, sensitive, silly little heart, so that in time he grew to love her as only second to his mother.
Such is my brief and imperfect, and I fear tedious account of Sam’s education, and of the companions with whom he lived, until the boy had grown into a young man, and his sixteenth birthday came round, on which day, as had been arranged, he was considered to have finished his education, and stand up, young as he was, as a man.
Happy morning, and memorable for one thing at least — that his father, coming into his bedroom and kissing his forehead, led him out to the front door, where was a groom holding a horse handsomer than any Sam had seen before, which pawed the gravel116 impatient to be ridden, and ere Sam had exhausted117 half his expressions of wonder and admiration118 — that his father told him the horse was his, a birthday-present from his mother.
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1 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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2 interspersed | |
adj.[医]散开的;点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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3 embellished | |
v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 );装饰;修饰;润色 | |
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4 ace | |
n.A牌;发球得分;佼佼者;adj.杰出的 | |
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5 illustrated | |
adj. 有插图的,列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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6 disturbance | |
n.动乱,骚动;打扰,干扰;(身心)失调 | |
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7 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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8 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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9 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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10 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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11 slab | |
n.平板,厚的切片;v.切成厚板,以平板盖上 | |
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12 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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13 petunias | |
n.矮牵牛(花)( petunia的名词复数 ) | |
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14 scorching | |
adj. 灼热的 | |
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15 providence | |
n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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16 random | |
adj.随机的;任意的;n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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17 gorging | |
v.(用食物把自己)塞饱,填饱( gorge的现在分词 );作呕 | |
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18 swelling | |
n.肿胀 | |
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19 benign | |
adj.善良的,慈祥的;良性的,无危险的 | |
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20 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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21 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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22 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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23 naturalist | |
n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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24 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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25 docile | |
adj.驯服的,易控制的,容易教的 | |
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26 vices | |
缺陷( vice的名词复数 ); 恶习; 不道德行为; 台钳 | |
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27 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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28 undone | |
a.未做完的,未完成的 | |
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29 discretion | |
n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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30 chastisement | |
n.惩罚 | |
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31 inefficiently | |
adv.无效率地 | |
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32 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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33 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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34 chestnut | |
n.栗树,栗子 | |
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35 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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36 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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37 thereby | |
adv.因此,从而 | |
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38 attentive | |
adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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39 conceited | |
adj.自负的,骄傲自满的 | |
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40 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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41 deductions | |
扣除( deduction的名词复数 ); 结论; 扣除的量; 推演 | |
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42 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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43 favourable | |
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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44 humdrum | |
adj.单调的,乏味的 | |
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45 relinquish | |
v.放弃,撤回,让与,放手 | |
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46 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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47 buckled | |
a. 有带扣的 | |
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48 defiled | |
v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 );污染;弄脏;纵列行进 | |
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49 throbbing | |
a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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50 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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51 audacity | |
n.大胆,卤莽,无礼 | |
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52 artillery | |
n.(军)火炮,大炮;炮兵(部队) | |
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53 sobbing | |
<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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54 halfway | |
adj.中途的,不彻底的,部分的;adv.半路地,在中途,在半途 | |
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55 crumpled | |
adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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56 vanquished | |
v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 );战胜;克服;抑制 | |
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57 discursive | |
adj.离题的,无层次的 | |
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58 delta | |
n.(流的)角洲 | |
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59 sonorous | |
adj.响亮的,回响的;adv.圆润低沉地;感人地;n.感人,堂皇 | |
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60 melodious | |
adj.旋律美妙的,调子优美的,音乐性的 | |
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61 agonizing | |
adj.痛苦难忍的;使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦;折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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62 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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63 consummate | |
adj.完美的;v.成婚;使完美 [反]baffle | |
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64 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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65 elastic | |
n.橡皮圈,松紧带;adj.有弹性的;灵活的 | |
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66 infringement | |
n.违反;侵权 | |
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67 excellence | |
n.优秀,杰出,(pl.)优点,美德 | |
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68 muster | |
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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69 wont | |
adj.习惯于;v.习惯;n.习惯 | |
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70 harry | |
vt.掠夺,蹂躏,使苦恼 | |
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71 pony | |
adj.小型的;n.小马 | |
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72 trot | |
n.疾走,慢跑;n.老太婆;现成译本;(复数)trots:腹泻(与the 连用);v.小跑,快步走,赶紧 | |
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73 kennel | |
n.狗舍,狗窝 | |
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74 joyously | |
ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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75 groom | |
vt.给(马、狗等)梳毛,照料,使...整洁 | |
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76 disporting | |
v.嬉戏,玩乐,自娱( disport的现在分词 ) | |
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77 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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78 ripple | |
n.涟波,涟漪,波纹,粗钢梳;vt.使...起涟漪,使起波纹; vi.呈波浪状,起伏前进 | |
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79 hurled | |
v.猛投,用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 );大声叫骂 | |
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80 reptile | |
n.爬行动物;两栖动物 | |
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81 entice | |
v.诱骗,引诱,怂恿 | |
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82 quotation | |
n.引文,引语,语录;报价,牌价,行情 | |
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83 tallies | |
n.账( tally的名词复数 );符合;(计数的)签;标签v.计算,清点( tally的第三人称单数 );加标签(或标记)于;(使)符合;(使)吻合 | |
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84 assorted | |
adj.各种各样的,各色俱备的 | |
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85 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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86 cumber | |
v.拖累,妨碍;n.妨害;拖累 | |
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87 creed | |
n.信条;信念,纲领 | |
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88 subscribed | |
v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 );签署,题词;订阅;同意 | |
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89 memorable | |
adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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90 descried | |
adj.被注意到的,被发现的,被看到的 | |
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91 valiantly | |
adv.勇敢地,英勇地;雄赳赳 | |
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92 odds | |
n.让步,机率,可能性,比率;胜败优劣之别 | |
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93 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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94 fangs | |
n.(尤指狗和狼的)长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 );(蛇的)毒牙;罐座 | |
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95 discomfited | |
v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词);使狼狈;使挫折;挫败 | |
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96 entrench | |
v.使根深蒂固;n.壕沟;防御设施 | |
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97 cavalry | |
n.骑兵;轻装甲部队 | |
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98 deftly | |
adv.灵巧地,熟练地,敏捷地 | |
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99 gunpowder | |
n.火药 | |
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100 blasphemy | |
n.亵渎,渎神 | |
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101 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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102 widower | |
n.鳏夫 | |
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103 courageous | |
adj.勇敢的,有胆量的 | |
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104 windings | |
(道路、河流等)蜿蜒的,弯曲的( winding的名词复数 ); 缠绕( wind的现在分词 ); 卷绕; 转动(把手) | |
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105 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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106 morose | |
adj.脾气坏的,不高兴的 | |
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107 persuasions | |
n.劝说,说服(力)( persuasion的名词复数 );信仰 | |
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108 volcanic | |
adj.火山的;象火山的;由火山引起的 | |
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109 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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110 lamented | |
adj.被哀悼的,令人遗憾的v.(为…)哀悼,痛哭,悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111 propitiate | |
v.慰解,劝解 | |
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112 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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113 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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114 prodigy | |
n.惊人的事物,奇迹,神童,天才,预兆 | |
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115 tact | |
n.机敏,圆滑,得体 | |
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116 gravel | |
n.砂跞;砂砾层;结石 | |
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117 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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118 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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