I suppose that next to the Scotch1, the Irish are out and out the dirtiest people on the earth. But whereas Scotch dirt is a crude and gross affair, Irish dirt has still a pathetic and almost tender grace about it. “Dear, dirty Dublin” sigh the emotional in such matters—though you never catch anybody shedding a tear for remembrance of dear, filthy2 Glasgow. Dublin is indubitably a dirty city, just as Ireland is a dirty country, and for Irishmen, at any rate, the Government is a dirty Government. And it is not because Dublin or Ireland is dirty of necessity, or in the way that the Black Country or the East End of London are dirty. Not a bit of it: Dublin and Ireland are dirty simply and solely4 because the Dublin and Irish people steadfastly[152] refuse to keep them clean. To all intents and purposes the Irish people have lost, if indeed they ever possessed5, that gift of punctilious6 domesticity, which insists first and last and always on cleanliness. In Dublin you will come upon more dirty hotels and more dirty houses than in pretty well any other city of its size in Europe. True, the dirt has the merit of not being too obvious, and falling short of the scandalous; but it is still there, and you cannot get away from it. Properly looked into, it recommends itself to you as the dirt of a happy-go-lucky, neglectful, behind-hand and poverty-stricken people, rather than of a people who are flagrantly given over to dirt for its own sake. It is the dirt of the slattern who is forever dusting things with her apron7, rather than of the stout8 idleback for whom dust and grime and sloppiness9 have no terrors, and no reproach. It is a dirt which is the direct consequence of bad seasons, the decay of trade, monetary10 stringency11, and public and private listlessness[153] and apathy12. It is the kind of dirt which one associates with the boarding-houses of elderly ladies who have seen “better days.” Ireland’s better days have been few and far between, and they would seem to be all past. Hence, no doubt, the dustiness and dinginess13 and shabby gentility of her parlors14. In an Irish hotel dirt and its common concomitant, tumbledownness, are ever before you. The floors clamor to be swept, the furniture would give a day of its life for a polishing, the wall papers are faded and fly-blown, there are cobwebs in the top corners and dust in the bottom corners, the windows are rickety and perfunctorily cleaned, the carpets infirm and old, the linen15 worn and yellow with age, the crockery cracked and chipped, the cutlery dull and greasy16, and the general air of the place shabby and forlorn. I do not say that there are no cleanly and spick-and-span hotels in Dublin; for there is at least one such establishment. But, in the main, what one may term the semi-clean, semi-dirty, used-to-be[154] kind of hotel prevails. Even the waiters, though their hair be greased and their faces shine by virtue17 of vigorous applications of soap, wear frayed18 and threadbare swallow-tails and a sort of perennial19 yesterday’s shirt-front. And what is true of the hotels is true of the houses. There is a district between Sackville Street and the ? Railway Station which contains a very large number of the somberest, most forbidding, and dirtiest-looking domiciles it has ever been my lot to come across. Formerly20 these houses were the homes of the easy and the well-to-do; now they are let off in tenements21 to the poorest of the poor. Black and grinding poverty peeps out of the cracked and paper-patched windows of them; groups of grubby, bare-legged, blue-cold children huddle22 round their decrepit23 doors, or scamper24 up and down the filthy pavements in front of them. The places may be sanitary25 enough within the meaning of the Acts, but that they are filthy and foul26, to a nauseating27 degree, no person[155] can doubt. Such rookeries would be clean swept away by the authorities in any English city. In Dublin nobody seems to trouble about them, or to be in the smallest sense disturbed by them. They are a part and parcel of dear, dirty Dublin, and haply Dublin would not be Dublin without them.
In the other Irish cities and towns the same tendency to squalor and grime and filth3 is painfully noticeable. Even in a center like Portadown, which, be it noted28, is Protestant and to a great extent new, the same undesirable29 traits assail30 you pretty well wherever you go. In a city set on a hill, without a factory to its name, I found a blackness and a grime which reminded me of nothing so much as Gravesend or Stockport. The hotel in that same city was as crazy as it was chilly31 and comfortless—poky rooms and dark little passages, meager32 and dubious33 furnishings, and dirt, dirt, dirt, from basement to attic34. Yet the place seemed populous35 with cleaner wenches, floor-scrubbers, and clout-women.[156] There was a boy in a green apron, who appeared to do nothing all day but dust the banisters, and the waiters were eternally flicking36 the dust off things with their napkins. And such waiters: wall-eyed, heated, fumbling37, grumpy, and incompetent38. They insisted on getting in one another’s way, and they had a gift of dilatoriness39 that amounted to genius. In this place, let me set down a small fact about the Irish waiter which may, perhaps, save future travelers in Ireland some trouble. If you ask an English waiter for a time-table he will bring it to you, and leave you to your own devices. If you ask an Irish waiter, he will say “Time-table, yes, sir. Where will you be afther goin’, sir?” You are taken unawares, and quite foolishly tell him the name of the next town on your itinerary40. Forthwith he informs you that there is a very good hotel there “be the name of the Jukes Head,” and that the next train “convanient” goes at “wan-thirty.” Is it a quick train? “Oh, yes.” Will he see that[157] your baggage Is taken to the station in time to catch it? Certainly he will. You keep your mind easy and turn up at the station at “wan-thirty.” There is a train at one-thirty, it is true, but, unluckily for you, it does not go within a hundred miles of your place of destination. The train you ought to have caught went at ten-thirty, and there is not another one till late at night, while, if it be Saturday, you must wait till Monday morning, because there are practically no Sunday trains in Ireland. Do not imagine for a moment that your Irish waiter has misinformed you with malice41 aforethought, or out of a desire to lengthen42 your sojourn43 in his employer’s hotel; because this is not the case. He is merely an Irishman, and therefore a born blunderer; and he does his best to blunder every time.
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1
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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2
filthy
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adj.卑劣的;恶劣的,肮脏的 | |
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3
filth
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n.肮脏,污物,污秽;淫猥 | |
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4
solely
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adv.仅仅,唯一地 | |
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5
possessed
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adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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6
punctilious
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adj.谨慎的,谨小慎微的 | |
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7
apron
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n.围裙;工作裙 | |
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9
sloppiness
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n.草率,粗心 | |
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10
monetary
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adj.货币的,钱的;通货的;金融的;财政的 | |
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stringency
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n.严格,紧迫,说服力;严格性;强度 | |
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12
apathy
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n.漠不关心,无动于衷;冷淡 | |
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13
dinginess
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n.暗淡,肮脏 | |
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14
parlors
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客厅( parlor的名词复数 ); 起居室; (旅馆中的)休息室; (通常用来构成合成词)店 | |
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15
linen
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n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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16
greasy
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adj. 多脂的,油脂的 | |
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17
virtue
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n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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18
frayed
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adj.磨损的v.(使布、绳等)磨损,磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
perennial
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adj.终年的;长久的 | |
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20
formerly
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adv.从前,以前 | |
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21
tenements
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n.房屋,住户,租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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22
huddle
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vi.挤作一团;蜷缩;vt.聚集;n.挤在一起的人 | |
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23
decrepit
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adj.衰老的,破旧的 | |
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24
scamper
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v.奔跑,快跑 | |
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25
sanitary
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adj.卫生方面的,卫生的,清洁的,卫生的 | |
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26
foul
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adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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27
nauseating
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adj.令人恶心的,使人厌恶的v.使恶心,作呕( nauseate的现在分词 ) | |
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28
noted
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adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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29
undesirable
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adj.不受欢迎的,不良的,不合意的,讨厌的;n.不受欢迎的人,不良分子 | |
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30
assail
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v.猛烈攻击,抨击,痛斥 | |
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31
chilly
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adj.凉快的,寒冷的 | |
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32
meager
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adj.缺乏的,不足的,瘦的 | |
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33
dubious
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adj.怀疑的,无把握的;有问题的,靠不住的 | |
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34
attic
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n.顶楼,屋顶室 | |
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35
populous
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adj.人口稠密的,人口众多的 | |
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36
flicking
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(尤指用手指或手快速地)轻击( flick的现在分词 ); (用…)轻挥; (快速地)按开关; 向…笑了一下(或瞥了一眼等) | |
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37
fumbling
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n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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38
incompetent
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adj.无能力的,不能胜任的 | |
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39
dilatoriness
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n.迟缓,拖延 | |
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40
itinerary
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n.行程表,旅行路线;旅行计划 | |
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41
malice
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n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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42
lengthen
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vt.使伸长,延长 | |
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43
sojourn
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v./n.旅居,寄居;逗留 | |
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