If we were to pin our faith on what we hear, and what we read, concerning the engrossing33 theme of horsemanship, we should ere long be led to believe that nothing was so easy as to keep alongside of a clipping pack of fox-hounds running hard over a grass country intersected with those formidable impediments which defend such verdant34 districts. Poor Nimrod tells us how to get our horses into condition; Beckford, Cooke, Delmé Radcliffe, Grantley Berkeley, Smith (not Assheton), and a host of others, instruct us patiently and at considerable length, in the scientific details of our favourite amusements. The author of “Soapy Sponge” presents to our delighted view the humours and ridiculous side of the question, conveying, by means of Mr. Jorrock’s inimitable vein35 of absurdity36, many home-truths and incontrovertible reflections; whilst last of all comes Sir Francis Head, with the brilliancy of his reputation, and the weight of his personal experience, to give the finishing touches to our education. He tells us in the simplest language, and as if it were the easiest thing in the world to do it as well as himself, how we are to saddle our horse and bridle37 our horse, how to dress and how to feed, how to go out in the morning and how to come at night, how to transform our hack38 into a hunter, and, when so metamorphosed, how to ride the astonished animal over the highest gates and the widest brooks39 that can be found in the midland counties of merry England; the whole performance to be achieved in a jovial40 off-hand style, as if it were the simplest and safest thing in the world. Now this is all very well in theory, but becomes a more complicated question when reduced to a matter of practice. It seems to me that to achieve excellence41 in riding to hounds, something more is required than a hard heart and a light pair of hands; that with all the advantages of courage, strength, and activity, being good horsemen, and with excellent hunters to ride, many men go out day after day, and season after season, without ever seeing a run to their own satisfaction; nay42, with a certainty, unless they are piloted by some more gifted sportsman, of losing the hounds in the first three fields. A man may be as bold as Alexander, and as well mounted too, never giving less than “three figures” for his Bucephalus, and yet unless he be possessed of a peculiar9 knack43 of finding his way over a country which it is almost impossible to explain, he will invariably be left behind in a quick thing.
This knack is a sort of instinct rather than an acquirement, an intuitive sagacity, akin3 to that faculty44 by which the Red Indian, in common with other savages45, takes the right direction through the pathless woods, and over the monotonous46 prairies of the West. We will suppose a man to be riding his own line, fairly with a pack of fox-hounds, in a country he has never seen before, with a good scent47, and a fox’s head set up-wind. He jumps into a field from which there are but two possible egresses, a quarter of a mile apart, the one to the right, the other to the left; he goes unhesitatingly to the former, and the hounds bend towards him almost as soon as he is clear of the obstacle which has obliged him to diverge48 from his line. He could not, probably, explain why he thus acted; yet he did it, and he was right. All through a run you will see some men gaining every turn upon the hounds, just as others lose them. This happy facility is but a modification49 of that which makes the difference between a bad huntsman and a good one. The latter seems to possess an intuitive knowledge of the run of a fox, independent of all extraneous50 accidents, such as wind, sheep, dogs, people ready to head him at every turn, and the thousand obstacles that are always present to destroy the chance of a good run—nay, even of country, for such men exhibit it in districts with which they have no acquaintance. I begin to think people are born sportsmen, just as they are born poets, painters, and peers of the realm. We see them in every class of life; and there is many an honest fellow who loses half a day’s work, and wears out his shoe-leather, to make the best he can of his fox-hunting on foot, who, in a higher position, would have achieved a brilliant reputation in the eyes of the sporting world.
What leads me to this reflection is the glimpse I had of Miss Lushington, at the window of her sanctuary51 commanding the stableyard, pouring out a wineglassful of a fluid that looked like water, but smelt52 like gin, and handing the same to one of the most dilapidated individuals it has ever been my fortune to encounter.
As I entered the back-door of the “Haycock,” he touched an extremely damaged hunting-cap, and greeted me with much cordiality. I then recognised a character with whom I could not fail to have made acquaintance, even during my short stay in the Soakington country, and whom I never heard called by any other name than “Old Ike, the Earth-stopper.” As an example of what I have above alluded53 to—the creature in whom the sporting instinct seems fully54 developed, the man who must obviously have been intended by Nature for a sportsman—Old Ike deserves to have his portrait taken, more especially as the office he fills so well is the only one in which he could have found his appropriate place in the world.
He is a tough, spare old man, very lean and very wrinkled, who looks as if all the juices had been exuded55 from his body by severe and unremitting exercise, till nothing has been left but sinew, gristle, and a pair of keen, dark eyes, like those of a hawk56. It is as if the original Isaac had been boiled down to what chemists call a residuum, and “Ike” was the result. He must have been a tall fellow in his youth, although he is now so bent57, and twisted, and knotted, that he carries his head at a much lower elevation58 than was intended by Nature, and his light, wiry form still denotes the possession of considerable strength. To look at him, you could swear he was the sort of fellow who was the best runner, leaper, cricketer, and fisherman of his parish; who could throw a stone further, and consequently hit harder, than any of his brother-yokels, and who was sure to be at the core of all the merry-making, and half the mischief59 that angered the squire60 and made the parson grieve. There is always one such scapegrace in every hamlet. As a boy at the village school, he climbs the tallest elms, takes the earliest birds’ nests, and is constantly prowling about the belfry, to curry61 favour with the ringers, and interfere62, with unspeakable interest, when anything is done to the church clock. As a lad, he turns out a swift bowler63, a dead hand at skittles, and a very useful fellow at all odd jobs; yet somehow, continually out of work. By degrees, he becomes an irregular attendant at church, and is always hankering about the stream, partly to make love to the miller’s daughter, and partly (as the squire’s keeper—a wary64 old bird, who began in exactly the same way himself—has found out) to set night-lines, trimmers, and such abominations, thereby65 entering unfailingly on the downward career of the poacher, to which “the contemplative man’s recreation” is apt to be the first step. After that, he gets thoroughly inoculated66 with the fatal passion. Then come the “shiny nights,” the slaughtered67 pheasants, and the netted hares; the sleep by day; the pot-house rendezvous68; the covered cart driven to a poulterer’s, who ought to know better, in the neighbouring market-town; the general laxity of principle, and utter demoralisation consequent on a life of habitual69 crime—perhaps the irresistible70 temptation of too heavy a sweep, the conflict with the keepers, fought out fiercely and unsparingly on both sides, to result in a verdict of manslaughter, and transportation for life.
Old Ike’s beginning, however, although sufficiently unpromising as regarded steadiness of habits, or the prospect71 of ever doing well in some settled trade or profession, was not destined72 to end in so fatal a catastrophe73. Moreover, his was one of those characters so often met with, of which it is difficult to reconcile the apparent contradictions. With a tendency amounting to a passion for every pastime that could possibly come under the category of the term “sport,” he was yet the gentlest and most amiable74 of created beings, where his fellow-man was concerned. Although as a boy he would risk his neck with the greatest delight to get a bird’s nest, and when obtained seemed utterly75 pitiless of the poor parents’ anxiety for their offspring, the same reckless lad would sit still for hours to rock the cradle of a suffering child, or run any number of miles in the wet and the dark to bring home the medicine for itself or its mother.
Though he could handle a game-fowl with remarkable76 coolness in the pit, and, what is a far more brutal77 and debasing amusement, look on with excited interest whilst two faithful and high-couraged dogs tore and worried each other for a five-shilling stake, he could not bear to see a fellow-creature in pain, and would soothe78 any of the village urchins79, with whom he was a prime favourite, under the infliction80 of a bruised81 knee and cut finger, as gently and tenderly as a woman. “Ike” was made up of contradictions, both within and without, nor was his moral being less twisted, and toughened, and knotted, than his frame.
Like a good many other persons in a higher sphere, “Ike” was ruined by the agreeable process of having a small fortune left him. This legacy82 acting83 on a temperament84 in which the love of approbation85 largely predominated, made him for a time an exceedingly conspicuous86 and remarkably87 popular individual in his own humble88 circle. He was not an idle man—far from it; but his habits were desultory—a much more dangerous characteristic. In fact, an idle man seldom does himself great positive harm. Like a vegetable, he may run to seed, or he may be trampled89 down; but he will not seek misfortune, and that unwelcome visitor is often a long time before she finds a tranquil90 person out.
Now Isaac must always be doing something; only, unluckily, it was the profitable work that ever seemed to him the most laborious91. To set-to with a will, and earn a shilling by six hours’ labour, would have been the most unwelcome proposal you could have made him; yet he would readily have paid you the same money, if he had it, to carry a game-bag for fourteen or fifteen hours, over the roughest country you could choose. You see the game-bag was unproductive, and therefore attracted him irresistibly92.
Ike’s fortune was not a large one. It consisted of two hundred pounds, and this he spent in about fourteen months, during which period he constantly treated some of the worst characters in the parish, and lived almost entirely93 in the open air, undergoing great hardship, both of work and weather, in the pursuit of that sport which to him was certainly synonymous with pleasure.
Just as he arrived at the last five-pound note of his two hundred, an Irish gentleman who was staying at Castle-Cropper, and delighted the whole neighbourhood with the breadth of his brogue, the daring of his horsemanship, and the vivacity94 of his manners, took a great fancy to Ike, from the masterly way in which he saw the latter fishing a pool below the Mill, and easily persuaded him to accompany him back to Ireland, as a sort of humble sporting companion. There being no profit and nothing definite to do, the situation was exactly suited to our friend; and as he could neither read nor write, it is needless to state that his patron called him his private secretary forthwith.
Most men have some period in their lives—not always the happiest while it was actually present—on which they are continually looking back, and to which they lose no opportunity of reverting95, as a sort of Utopian existence, rendering everything else tame and desolate96 by comparison. Such, it would appear, was Ike’s residence in the county Galway. Whenever the old man’s heart was warmed and his nose reddened by his usual potation, “a little gin-and-cloves,” he would enlarge upon his favourite theme. He was never tired of detailing the glories of Bally-Blazer, the improvidence97 of the housekeeping, the liberality and general recklessness of “The Master.” The latter, by Ike’s account (although the narrator, it must be admitted, varied98 a little in his statistics), seems to have kept more young horses and old servants, drank more claret, and betted more freely on the Curragh, than any other gentleman in the West of Ireland. Here Ike acquired his principal knowledge of hunting, and a taste, which rapidly grew into a passion, for that amusement. Mounted by The Master upon what he was pleased to call “the pick of the stable,” Ike, by his own account, distinguished99 himself for his daring feats100 of horsemanship as well as by his scientific knowledge of the chase.
It is difficult to make out whether the aborigines of the country believed him to be an English relative of The Master’s, or a foreigner of distinction on a special mission from his Holiness the Pope. Isaac rather leads us to infer that the latter supposition was the favourite theory in and about the demesne101. Be this as it may, under the auspices102 of his patron he soon became, in every sense of the word, a leading characteristic with “The Flamers,” that celebrated103 hunt, which has so often been immortalised in song and story. “Mr. Isaacs,” as he vows104 he was always called, drank, talked, and rode with the boldest, the loudest, and the thirstiest of them. He seems to have ridden in and out of the celebrated Pound at Ballinasloe, on an average, once every half-hour, during the two days and nights that well-known horse-fair is supposed to last; and it was here that Ike distinguished himself by the great and crowning exploit of his life.
It was in the old fighting, roistering days. Captain Bounceable quarrelled with Major O’Toole, upon the merits of a “harse,” as each of the belligerents105 was pleased to term the noble animal that originated their differences. The lie which had been told pretty frequently during the dispute, was at length given with offensive directness; and nothing but “thunder an’ turf:” pistols and coffee, could be the result. The time was hard upon midnight; the next morning was Sunday; the principals, men of the strictest orthodoxy and the soundest Protestantism. The quarrel could not possibly keep till Monday morning. Major O’Toole was impatient for action: Captain Bounceable thirsted for blood. They must have it out then and there, in the inn-garden, without waiting for daylight.
Except at the two ends of a handkerchief, however, even Irishmen cannot conveniently fight a duel106 in the dark. It was proposed, therefore, and agreed to with considerable cordiality, that each combatant should hold a lighted torch in his left hand, to direct his adversary’s fire; a loaded pistol in his right, to return it. But here arose an unexpected difficulty. Major O’Toole had but one arm; and, although Captain Bounceable had but one eye, the advantage was obviously on the side of the latter, in a case of steady pistol practice.
The duel might now have been postponed—perhaps even prevented altogether—had it not been for the self-devotion of Mr. Isaacs.
“The gentlemen shall not be disappointed,” said Ike—“I’ll see fair, and hold the candle for both of ’em.”
“Where will you stand?” asked Major O’Toole.
“Halfway between ye,” replied the daring Englishman, “and take the chance of both of ye missing me. Give us a lantern, though,” he added; “for the wind’s rising from the south-west.”
“Faith, if it’s a bull’s-eye,” quoth Bounceable, “I’ll be safe to snuff it out; and we’ll be worse in the dark than ever, for a second shot.”
So Mr. Isaacs placed himself in a cross-fire, at five paces’ distance from the muzzle107 of each pistol; and it is not surprising that one bullet should have gone through the tail of his coat, and the other grazed his elbow, so as to incapacitate him for ever for that hard work to which he had always shown such a profound disinclination.
After this truly Hibernian satisfaction had been given and received, the party all sat down again, and drank claret till church-time.
But these days could not last for ever. One rainy morning, Ike’s good-humoured patron sent for his old nurse, his huntsman, his trainer, and the parish priest, bid the three first an affectionate farewell, and took his own departure very peaceably under the offices of the last. He left a handsome amount of debt, accumulated during many years, but no ready money, except a crooked108 sixpence on his watch-chain. Mr. Isaacs, returning to England without a shilling, became plain “Ike” once more.
He tried life in towns, under many different characters. As a billiard-marker, a light porter, an assistant-ostler, and a penny-postman; but the temptation to the copses and hedgerows was too strong for him, and the receipt of regular wages so unnatural109 as to be almost unpleasant. Even the tinker’s nomadic110 profession, which he adopted for a time, was of too settled and business-like a nature; and he gave it up ere long, in a fit of impatience111 and disgust.
This wandering trade, however, brought him one winter into the neighbourhood of Soakington; and a day with the Castle-Cropper hounds, beginning on the old pony112 that drew his cart, and ended on his own active and enduring feet, revived all his smouldering passion for the chase.
From that time, he took up his residence in one of the tumble-down cottages near The Haycock, of which he rented a little apartment like a dog-kennel. Hence he hunted as regularly as any other sportsman with half-a-dozen horses and a covert-hack. No distance was too great for him in the morning; indeed he generally travelled to the meet with the hounds, stayed out all day, and came home in the same good company. Whatever might be the pace he contrived113 to live with them, even before he became thoroughly familiar with the country, and would face the large Soakington fences—ay, and clear them, too—in his stride, as gallantly114 as a thorough-bred horse sixteen hands high, and up to fourteen stone.
“Old Ike,” as he began in the lapse115 of time to be called throughout the Hunt, must have made a good thing of it during the winter season, in the many half-crowns and shillings with which he was presented by his riding friends, to whom he was often useful, in the way of pulling up girths, tightening116 curb-chains, and catching117 loose horses. Nay, on one occasion he is reported to have ridden a young one over the Sludge, on behalf of a cautious sportsman following his property on foot, but who, not calculating on the difficulty of clearing some fourteen feet in boots and breeches, landed (if we may use the expression) up to his chin in water, and was extricated118, at great personal inconvenience, by the daring pedestrian to whom he had entrusted119 his horse. Old red-coats, too, were amongst the perquisites120 freely bestowed121 on Ike. At one time, I have been informed, he had no less than forty of these cast-off garments in his wardrobe—the origin of many jests and much amusement, at the expense of their previous wearers.
It may be supposed that Ike’s Irish experience had not failed to sharpen his powers of repartee122; and many anecdotes123 were current anent the “retorts courteous” with which, on several occasions, he had turned the laugh against those who thought either to brow-beat or what is vulgarly termed “chaff” him.
One frosty morning, at the covert-side, bidding a cordial “Good-morrow” to a certain patron not distinguished for sweetness of temper, the gentleman, who seemed to have forgotten the universal courtesy which alone gives a man a title to the name, replied by telling him to “go to ——” a place not mentioned in good company.
“Faith,” says Ike, “it’s warmer there than here, at any rate; for I’m just come from it.”
Struck by so strange an answer, the mounted sportsman asked the one on foot “How things were going on in those lower regions?”
“Much as usual,” replied Ike, with a sly twinkle in his eye, and a glance at his interrogator124, who had lately inherited a large fortune—“much as usual, and terribly crowded about the doorway125. The poor all coming out, and the rich all going in!”
The wealthy man struck spurs into his horse, and forbore to ask Ike any farther questions.
But Time, which, as the poet tells us, will “rust the keenest blade,” did not fail to leave the marks of his progress upon old Ike. Hard work, hard fare, and the lapse of years eventually disqualified him for such severe exertion126 as that of following fox-hounds on foot; and the Earl of Castle-Cropper, with that consideration which, under his calm exterior127, has always attested128 the warmth of his heart, gave him the appointment of earth-stopper in his establishment—an office which the old man fills thoroughly con1 amore, and for which his exceedingly active habits, his utter disregard of all conventional hours or customs, and his extraordinary familiarity with the habits of wild animals, render him peculiarly fitted.
It is not often he indulges, as I saw him at the bar-window, in the use of stimulants129; but when he does “take a drop of anything, it is always a glass of gin-and-cloves.” In this fragrant130 compound he invariably drinks the same toast—an old-world sentiment almost forgotten—
“Horses stout131, and hounds healthy;
Earths well stopped, and foxes plenty!”
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1
con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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inspections
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| n.检查( inspection的名词复数 )；检验；视察；检阅 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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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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10
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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11
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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14
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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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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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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47
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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48
diverge
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| v.分叉，分歧，离题，使...岔开，使转向 | |
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49
modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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50
extraneous
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| adj.体外的；外来的；外部的 | |
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51
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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52
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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53
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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55
exuded
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的过去式和过去分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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56
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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57
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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58
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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59
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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60
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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61
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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62
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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63
bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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64
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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65
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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66
inoculated
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| v.给…做预防注射( inoculate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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69
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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70
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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71
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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72
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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73
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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74
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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75
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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76
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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77
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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78
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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79
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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80
infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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81
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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82
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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83
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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84
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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85
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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86
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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88
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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89
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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90
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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91
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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92
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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93
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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94
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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95
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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96
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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97
improvidence
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| n.目光短浅 | |
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98
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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99
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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100
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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101
demesne
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| n.领域，私有土地 | |
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102
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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103
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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104
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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105
belligerents
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| n.交战的一方（指国家、集团或个人）( belligerent的名词复数 ) | |
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106
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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107
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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108
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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109
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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110
nomadic
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| adj.流浪的；游牧的 | |
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111
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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112
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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113
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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114
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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115
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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116
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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117
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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118
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
perquisites
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| n.（工资以外的）财务补贴( perquisite的名词复数 )；额外收入；（随职位而得到的）好处；利益 | |
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121
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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123
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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124
interrogator
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| n.讯问者；审问者；质问者；询问器 | |
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125
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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126
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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127
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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128
attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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129
stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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130
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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