With some fellows the golden age seems to have been passed at Eton, with others at the Universities. Here a quiet, mild clergyman gloats over the roistering days he spent as a Cornet in the Hussars; there an obese2 old gentleman prates3 of the fascinations4 of London, and his own successes as a slim young dandy about town. Everybody believes he liked that rosy5 past better than he did. Just as we fancy that the hounds never run nowadays as they used, when we had lungs to holloa and nerves to ride; and that even if they could go the same pace hunters are not now to be got of the stamp of our old chestnut6 horse, concerning whose performances we think no shame to lie, year by year, with increasing audacity7; there is nobody left to contradict us, and why should we not?
Now, Mr. Sawyer, too, will descend8 into the vale of years, with a landmark9 on which to fix his failing eyes, an era which shall serve as a date for his reminiscence, and a starting-point for his after-dinner yarns11. This shall be the season when Mr. Sawyer went to the Shires. It is not yet very long ago. Perhaps it may be well to relate a few of his adventures and doings in those localities ere they lapse12 into the realms of fiction under the romantic colouring with which he will himself begin to paint them, when their actual freshness has worn off.
Touching13 Mr. Sawyer’s early history, I have collected but few particulars, not enjoying the advantage of that gentleman’s acquaintance till he had arrived at years of maturity14. I gather, however, that he matriculated at Oxford15, and was rusticated16 from that pleasant University for some breach17 of college discipline, sufficiently18 venial19 in itself, but imbued20 with a scarlet21 tinge22 in the eyes of the authorities. I have heard that he rode an Ayrshire bull across Peckwater in broad daylight, having previously23 attired24 himself in a red coat, with leathers, &c., complete, and clad the patient animal in a full suit of academicals. Also that he endeavoured to mollify his judges by apostrophising the partner of his trespass25, in the words Horace puts into the mouth of Europa,
“Si quis infamem mihi nunc juvencum;”
and so on to the end of the stanza26. As, although Mr. Sawyer’s fluency27 in all Saxon expletives is undeniable, I never heard him make use of any language but his own, I confess to my mind this story bears upon the face of it the stamp of improbability, and that perversion28 of the truth from which Oxonian annals are not entirely29 free.
It is a good old fashion to commence a narrative30 by a personal description of its hero; such as you would see in the Hue31 and Cry, or the advertisements for that missing gentleman in the Times who has never been found yet, and whose humble32 costume of half-boots, tweed trousers, and an olive surtout, with a bunch of keys and three-halfpence in the pockets, denotes neither affluence33 nor display. Upon this principle let me endeavour to bring before the mind’s eye of my readers the outward semblance34 of my worthy35 friend, John Standish Sawyer, a man of mark, forsooth, in his own parish, “and justice of peace in his county, simple though he stand here.”
Mr. Sawyer is a well-built, able-bodied personage, standing36 five feet eight in the worsted stockings he usually affects, with a frame admirably calculated to resist fatigue37, to perform feats38 of strength rather than agility39, and to put on beef: the last tendency he keeps down with constant and severe exercise, so that the twelve stone which he swings into his saddle is seldom exceeded by a pound. “As long as I ride thirteen stone,” quoth Mr. Sawyer to his intimates after dinner, “no man alive can take the shine out of me over a country. Mason! Mason’s all very well for a spurt40! but where is he at the end of two hours and forty minutes, through woodlands, in deep clay? Answer me that! and pass the bottle.”
Our friend’s admirers term his person square: his enemies, and he has a few, call it “clumsy:” certainly his hands and feet are large, his limbs robust41, but not well-turned; and though it would make him very angry to hear me, I confess his is not my beau idéal of the figure for a horseman. Nevertheless, he has an honest English face, round and rosy, light-grey eyes, such as usually belong to an energetic and persevering42 temperament43, with thin sandy hair, and a good deal of stiff red whisker.
Altogether, he looks like a man you would rather drink with than fight with, any day. Perhaps, if very fastidious, you might prefer letting him alone, to doing either. Of his costume, I shall only say that it partakes on everyday occasions of the decidedly sporting, with a slight tendency towards the slang. Its details are those of a dress in which the owner is ready to get on horseback at a moment’s notice; nay44, in which he is qualified45, without further preparation, to ride four miles straight-on-end, over a stiff country; so enduring are its materials, and so suggestive of equestrian46 exercise is its general fit. Also, on Sundays, as on week-days, in town or country, he delights in a “five to two” sort of hat, with a flat brim and backward set, which denote indisputable knowledge of horseflesh, and a sagacity that almost amounts to dishonesty.
Not that Mr. Sawyer ever bets; far from it. He elbows his way indeed into the ring, and criticises the two-year-olds as they walk jauntily47 down to the starting-post, as if he speculated like the Leviathan, and owned a string like Sir Joseph Hawley’s; but all this is simply ex officio. Wherever horses are concerned, Mr. Sawyer deems it incumbent48 on him to make a demonstration49, and he goes to Tattersall’s as regularly on the Sunday afternoons in the summer, as you and I do to dinner. Like the Roman Emperor, the horse is his high-priest, and the object of his idolatry.
I am afraid hunting is going downhill. I do not mean to say that there is not an ever-increasing supply of ambitious gentlemen who order coats from Poole, boots from Bartley, and horses from Mason, to display the same wherever they think they are most likely to be admired; but I think there are few specimens50 left of the old hunting sort, who devoted51 themselves exclusively to their favourite pursuit, and could not even bear to hear it mentioned with anything like levity52 or disrespect; men whose only claim to social distinction was that they hunted, who looked upon their red coat as a passport to all the society they cared to have, and who divided the whole community, in their own minds, into two classes—“men who hunt,” and “men who don’t.”
In these days people have so many irons in the fire! Look at even the first flight, with a crack pack of hounds; ten to one amongst the half-a-dozen who compose it you will find a soldier, a statesman, a poet, a painter, or a Master in Chancery, whilst “maddening in the rear” through the gates come a posse of authors, actors, amateurs, artists, of every description, till you think of Juvenal’s stinging lines, and his Protean53 Greek, who was
“Grammaticus, rhetor, geometres, pictor, aliptes,
Augur54, sch?nobates, medicus, magus,” &c.,
and vote a fox-hunter the conglomeration55 of all these different accomplishments56.
But Mr. Sawyer did not trouble himself much about Juvenal or his opinions. Finding his classical career a failure, and, what was more disappointing, his anticipated season with Mr. Drake cut short in consequence of his misadventure with the bull, he gave up the little reading which he had been compelled to take in hand, and confined his studies exclusively to Bell’s Life, The Field, with its questions and answers to correspondents, suggestive alike of inventive ingenuity57 as of exhaustive research, and the Sporting Magazine. The fact is, what with hunting three and four times a week, talking of it the remaining days, and thinking of it all the seven, with constant visits to the stable and a perpetual feud58 with his blacksmith, Mr. Sawyer’s mind was completely filled with as much as that receptacle could be thought capable of containing.
My hero, like the champions of the Round Table, is perhaps seen to the greatest advantage on horseback. Let me introduce him to my reader, riding like a knight59 through the wilds of Lyonnesse, up a deep muddy lane, as he returns from hunting in the dull November twilight60.
“Capital bit of stuff,” says Mr. Sawyer, knocking off the ashes of his cigar with his dogskin-clad finger, and apostrophising his “mount,” a very little grey horse, with an arched neck and light mouth, and a tail set on high on his quarters. “Capital bit of stuff,” he repeats, dangling61 his feet out of the stirrups; “as game as a pebble62, and as neat as a pin.” “Two hundred—two hundred and fifty! You’re worth two hundred and fifty, every shilling of it” (he had bought him of a fishmonger for forty pounds and a broken-winded pony). “Worth as much as any horse can be to carry thirteen stone. Hang it; you’d fetch all the money at Tattersall’s if any of the customers could only have seen you go to-day!”
Then Mr. Sawyer placed his feet in the stirrups, and fell to thinking of his day’s sport.
They had really had a good run—a fine, wild, old-fashioned fox-hunting sort of run—from two hundred acres of woodland, down a couple of miles of bottomless ravine, and away over deep stiff ploughs and frequent straggling fences, till they reached the far-stretching Downs. Here their fox had made his point good up-wind, and the pace even of those square-headed, deep-ribbed, heavy-timbered hounds had been liberal enough to satisfy the most exacting63. Mr. Sawyer remembered, with a glow of pride, how, when they descended65 into the low country once more, he had led the field, and jumped an awkward stile, into a lane, to the admiration66 of all beholders. He could ride, to give him his due; and, moreover, he knew what hounds were doing, and was familiar with the country. Therefore he had slipped away with them, when the pack, after three or four turns round the huge woodland, had forced their fox into the open; therefore he had kept on the down-wind side of the ravine aforesaid, and therefore he had been fortunate enough to see the fox handsomely run into, in an old double hedgerow, after an hour and forty minutes, during which he had unquestionably “gone best” from end to end. The huntsman said so—a wary67 ancient, who, never showing in front at any period, or running the slightest risks in the way of pace or fencing, had a huntsman’s peculiar68 knack69 of turning up when he was wanted, particularly towards the finish. The doctor said so—an old rival, whose high character for riding entitled him to be generous; and the fishmonger, previous possessor of the grey, loudly affirmed, with many oaths which it is unnecessary to repeat, that “Muster Sawyer always was a hout-and-houter, and had gone audacious!” Contrary to custom, none of the rest of the field had been near enough to give an opinion, though excuses as usual were rife70 for non-appearance. To judge from his own account, no man ever misses a run, save by a concatenation of circumstances totally unprecedented71. Besides every normal casualty, he would always seem to have been baffled throughout by an opposing fiend of remarkable72 perseverance73 and diabolical74 ingenuity.
As the sun went down in a deep crimson75 segment, like the glow of a ruby76, or the danger-signal on a railway, Mr. Sawyer lit a fresh cigar, and began to ponder on the merits of his own riding and the capabilities77 of his stud. As the daylight waned78, and the grey ash of his “choice Laranaga” (seven-and-forty shillings the pound) grew longer and longer, he began to think so much talent was quite wasted in “the provinces”—that he was capable of better things than “showing the way” to the half-dozen of red-coats and couple of farmers who constituted his usual “gallery”—that he was too good for the Old Country, as its sportsmen affectionately designate that picturesque79 locality in which they follow the chase—and that he was bound to do himself and the little grey horse justice by visiting the wide pastures, the prairie-like grazing-ground of the crack countries; to use his own vernacular80, that he ought to “cut the whole concern for a season, and have a turn at the Shires.” His cogitations took some such form as the following:—“Here am I, still on the sunny side of forty—in the prime of my life, of my pluck, of my strength, and—ahem!—of my appearance—none so dusty neither, on horseback, whatever Miss Mexico may think, with her olive skin and her stuck-up airs. After all, I don’t know that I’d have had her, though she was a thirty-thousand pounder! I don’t like ’em touched with the tar-brush. I’m all for the thorough-bred ones—women, as well as horses. Well, here I am, wasting my life in these deserted81 ploughs. Even if we do get a run, such as we had to-day, I have no one to talk to about it. The Grange is a crafty82 crib enough, and I’m as comfortable there as a bachelor need to be; but I can’t go home, night after night, to bolt my dinner by myself, smoke by myself to digest it, and go to bed at ten o’clock, because I’m so bored with John Sawyer, and it’s the only way to get rid of him. No, hang it! I’ll emigrate; I’ll go and hibernate83 in the grass. I’ll make Isaac a stud-groom; I’ll buy a couple more nags84, the right sort too—show those dandified chaps how to ride, and perhaps sell the lot for a hatful of money at the end of the season, and have all my fun for nothing.” Deluded85 man! how feasible the latter project sounds—how difficult to realise!
The idea once having taken possession of our friend’s mind, soon found itself cramped86 for room in that somewhat circumscribed87 area. All dinner-time he was absent and preoccupied88; even Scotch89 broth90, a beef-steak pudding, a damson tart10, and toasted cheese, did not tend to settle him. Two of the Laranagas were converted into smoke and ashes before he could come to anything like a definite conclusion. Though a temperate91 man habitually92 (for the sake of his nerves), he rang for the old brandy labelled V.O.P., and mixed himself a real stiff one, with boiling water and one lump of sugar. I have my suspicions that his final decision was partly its result. The great difficulty was where to go. A man of limited acquaintance and reserved manners has at least this advantage—that all parts of England are equally attractive as regards society. Then he had hunted too much to believe newspaper accounts of sport, so that looking up the old files of Bell’s Life assisted him no whit93 to a conclusion; also being of an inquiring turn of mind, wherever fox-hunting was concerned, he had amassed94 such a quantity of information concerning the “flying countries,” that it took him a considerable time and another glass of brandy-and-water to digest and classify his facts. Altogether it was a complicated and puzzling question. First he thought of Leamington and the Warwickshire North and South, with regular attendance on the Atherstone and one field-day per week with the Pytchley; but many considerations combined to render the Spa ineligible95 as his head-quarters. In the first place, the evening gaieties made his hair stand on end. Since his rejection96 by Miss Mexico, Sawyer was no dancing man; and indeed even in the first flush of his courtship he was seen to less advantage in a white neckcloth than a blue bird’s-eye. Some men’s hands and feet are not made to fit boots and gloves as constructed by our neighbour the fiery97 Gaul, and for such it is wise to abstain98 from “the mazy,” and to rest their hopes of success on other and more sterling99 qualities than the vapid100 demeanour and cool assurance which triumph in a ball-room. Then, with all his fondness for the applause of his fellow-creatures, he did not quite fancy making one of that crowd of irregular-horse who appear on a Wednesday at Crick or Misterton, to the unspeakable dismay of the Pytchley lady pack, who, if there is anything like a scent101, scour102 away from them as if for their very lives; and although it is doubtless a high compliment that two hundred gentlemen in scarlet should patronise the same establishment, Mr. Sawyer thought that as far as he was concerned, the number might as well stop at one hundred and ninety-nine.
I believe, however, that the dread103 of those wide and fathomless104 rivers which are constantly jumped, in Warwickshire, by at least one amphibious sportsman out of a daring field, and of which the width from bank to bank, according to the newspapers, is seldom less than seven-and-twenty or more than seven-and-thirty feet, was what principally terrified our friend. Accustomed to a leading championship at home, he shrank from such aquatic105 rivalry106, and resolved that, with all its fascinations, Warwickshire at least should not have the benefit of his patronage107.
Once, after a steaming gulp108 of the stimulating109 fluid, the idea of Melton flashed across his mind, but it was dismissed as soon as entertained. “I’m not such a fool as I look,” quoth Mr. Sawyer; “and I don’t mean to keep eight hunters and a couple of hacks110 to meet a set of fellows every day, who won’t condescend111 to notice me unless I do as they do. Whist and dry champagne112, and off to London at the first appearance of frost; ride like a butcher all day, risking twice as much neck as I do here, and then come out ‘quite the lady’ at dinner-time, and choke in a white tie, acting64 the part of a walking gentleman all the evening. No! Melton won’t suit my book at any price. Besides, I’d never sell my horses there; they order their hunters down from London just as they do their ’baccy’ and their breeches.” So the idea of Melton was dismissed; and a vision of Oakham, or Uppingham, or even Billesdon rose in its stead. He could not quite get those tempting113 pastures, with their sunny slopes and flying fences, out of his head. The same objection, however, applied114 to the last-mentioned places that drove him from home, viz. the want of society. That deficiency seemed to threaten him wherever he set up his staff. At Wansford he would be as solitary115 as in the Old Country; also he would be further from High Leicestershire than he liked. The same drawback was attached to Lutterworth, and Rugby, and Northampton. It was not till the third glass that the inspiration seized him. Dashing the end of his cigar under the grate, he rose from his easy-chair, stuck his hands in his pockets and his back to the waning116 fire, stamped thrice on the hearth-rug, like a necromancer117 summoning his familiar, and exclaimed aloud, “The very place! I wonder I never thought of it before. Strike me ugly, if I won’t go to Market Harborough!”
Then he finished his brandy-and-water at a gulp, lit his candle, and tumbled up to bed, where he dreamed he was riding a rocking-horse over the Skeffington Lordship, with no one in the same field with him but the late Mr. William Scott, the vehemence118 of whose language was in exact proportion to the strength of the beverage119 which had constituted his own night-cap.
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1
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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obese
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| adj.过度肥胖的，肥大的 | |
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prates
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| v.（古时用语）唠叨，啰唆( prate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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4
fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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8
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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10
tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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11
yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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12
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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13
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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rusticated
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| v.罚（大学生）暂时停学离校( rusticate的过去式和过去分词 )；在农村定居 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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perversion
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| n.曲解；堕落；反常 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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spurt
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| v.喷出；突然进发；突然兴隆 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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45
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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46
equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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48
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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49
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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50
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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51
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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52
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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53
protean
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| adj.反复无常的；变化自如的 | |
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54
augur
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| n.占卦师；v.占卦 | |
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55
conglomeration
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| n.团块，聚集，混合物 | |
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56
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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hibernate
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| v.冬眠，蛰伏 | |
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nags
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| n.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的名词复数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的第三人称单数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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89
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ineligible
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| adj.无资格的，不适当的 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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99
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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101
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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102
scour
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| v.搜索；擦，洗，腹泻，冲刷 | |
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103
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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104
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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105
aquatic
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| adj.水生的，水栖的 | |
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106
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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107
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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108
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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109
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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110
hacks
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| 黑客 | |
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111
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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112
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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113
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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114
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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115
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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116
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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117
necromancer
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| n. 巫师 | |
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118
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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119
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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