Amongst the changes in club-life in London, perhaps the most striking is the almost total cessation of the late sittings in which members formerly1 indulged. Various causes have contributed to make people in the West End of London keep earlier hours, of which the most notable is that the number of unoccupied men, who once formed a large proportion of those living in what is called the fashionable part of the town, has shrunk to a very small number, if it has not altogether ceased to exist. In other days there were plenty of young bachelors with something under a thousand a year who spent their life in complete idleness. A club was the pivot3 of their existence, and here they would often sit till the small-hours of the morning.
Another cause of early hours is the great popularity of motoring and golf, the widespread indulgence in which does anything but promote a love of sitting up late.
At the time when a great number of people had nothing to do all day, not a few regarded the night as being the most amusing part of their existence, when they could forgather with choice spirits and 179sit talking one against the other, as the old phrase had it, “till all was blue.”
As illustrating4 the lateness of the hours formerly kept by members of some West End clubs, a story used to be told about a staid country member who, arriving at one of these institutions, having travelled by a night train, went up to the coffee-room and began to order breakfast, upon which he was told, by a sleepy waiter, that no suppers were served after 6 a.m.
One of the latest sitters was Theodore Hook, so renowned5 for spontaneous wit. He was very proud of a peculiar6 receipt of his own for the prevention of exposure to the evil effects of night air. “I was once very ill,” said he, “and my doctor gave me particular orders not to expose myself to it; so I come up (from Fulham) every day to Crockford’s, or some other place, to dinner, ever since which I have made it a rule on no account to go home again till about four or five o’clock in the morning.”
Those were the days when the closing hours of a number of West End clubs were much later than is at present the case. Now there are seldom many members to be found in a club-house after one, and fines have become rare. Up to about fifteen or twenty years ago, considerable laxity prevailed as to enforcing these penalties which are exacted for sitting up after a certain hour, but the introduction of more business-like habits into West End life has put an end to such a state of affairs. Late sittings at clubs were, of course, in the vast majority of instances, connected with 180card-playing; and when this pastime was more prevalent than is now the case, some confirmed lovers of whist, and later of bridge, occasionally sat very late indeed.
Whist is now practically an obsolete7 game, and it is curious to recall that the introduction of short whist was once considered a great innovation. “Major A.,” the author of “Short Whist,” a book which was famous in the middle of the last century, gives the following account of its origin: “This revolution was occasioned by a worthy8 Welsh Baronet preferring his lobster9 for supper hot. Four first-rate whist-players—consequently four great men—adjourned from the House of Commons to Brooks’s, and proposed a rubber while the cook was busy. ‘The lobster must be hot,’ said the Baronet. ‘A rubber may last an hour,’ said another, ‘and the lobster may be cold again or spoiled before we finish.’ ‘It is too long,’ said a third. ‘Let us cut it shorter,’ said the fourth. Carried nem. con2. Down they sat, and found it very lively to win or lose so much quicker. Besides furnishing conversation for supper, the thing was new—they were legislators, and had a fine opportunity to exercise their calling.”
Another version was supplied by James Clay, who was one of the principal authorities on whist in his day. His account is as follows:
“Some eighty years back, Lord Peterborough having one night lost a large sum of money, the friends with whom he was playing proposed to make the game five points instead of ten, in order to give the loser a chance, at a quicker game, of 181recovering his loss. The late Mr. Hoare of Bath, a very good whist-player, and without a superior at piquet, was one of this party, and used frequently to tell this story.”
Whatever the origin of short whist may have been, the controversy11 between the advocates of long whist and those who supported the new game was a bitter struggle. Innovators are always hated, and have their characters blackened by those who have grown too old to care for the new, or those who are too unintelligent to do so. The clergy12 to a man were for long whist.
The laws of whist were first codified13 in England at the instance of Mr. Baldwin. The Turf Club in 1863 was called the Arlington. The matter was suggested to the committee of the Arlington, and a number of members were appointed to investigate matters and compile a code. These were: George Bentinck, M.P. for West Norfolk; John Bushe, son of the Chief Justice of “Patronage” fame; J. Clay, M.P., chairman; Charles C. Grenville; Sir Rainald Knightley, M.P.; H. B. Mayne, G. Payne, and Colonel Ripon. When completed, the code was submitted to the Portland Club, and a committee of this the chief whist club of the country considered its contents. This committee consisted of H. D. Jones, chairman, the father of the late “Cavendish,” who died in 1899; Charles Adams, W. F. Baring, H. Fitzroy, Samuel Petrie, H. M. Riddell, and R. Wheble. It was on April 30, 1864, that the code was officially sanctioned—a red-letter day in the annals of whist.
The triumph of bridge over whist is a matter 182of recent social history which will be dealt with later on.
The greatest breach16 of regulations ever committed was probably that which occurred in a well-known West End club some thirteen or fourteen years ago, when two members sat through the whole night at cards, and became so absorbed in their game that they were still sitting there at the re-opening at nine the next morning. Notwithstanding the arrival of a number of outraged18 members, they continued playing till one, when, having reluctantly risen from the card-table, they walked out into the sunlight, handing in their resignations as they left. As a matter of fact, the stakes played for were comparatively moderate, and the differences at the close of the séance were consequently small. Both men, it should be added, were confirmed sitters-up, and the abnormal hours kept by them on several previous occasions had called forth19 remonstrances20 from the committee. At the majority of London clubs, fines are inflicted21 on those sitting up after the hours of one-thirty or two, though in some cases they begin earlier or later. In such club-houses as are not definitely closed at two-thirty or three, the fines gradually rise till the hour of five or six o’clock is reached, when any further sojourn22 in the club-house is punished by expulsion.
The amount to be paid for remaining in certain clubs till the actual time of closing is considerable; nevertheless there have been instances of members remaining to the very last minute who were not card-players, and merely sat up through indifference24 or thoughtlessness.
183The present writer remembers one member who actually had to pay a fine of ￡17 for sitting all alone in a club till the doors were closed. This gentleman had a perfect mania25 for not going to bed, and his habit of keeping the whole club-house going, long after the other members were in bed, eventually caused a complete readjustment of the scale of fines and the adoption26 of an earlier hour for closing. As a matter of fact, though he paid the heavy fines with perfect complacency, the sums received were not sufficient to cover the expenses of lighting27, servants, and the like, for the whole establishment, of course, had to be kept going till it was his pleasure to depart.
In old days, quite a number of club-men would habitually28 turn night into day; but this is no longer the case, and the few members who still adhere to the habits of another age are generally regarded with little favour by committees. Several clubs, as a matter of fact, have altered their hours entirely30 to prevent the club-house from being kept open solely31 for the benefit of one or two members.
Another complaint against late sitters is that the club servants, in consequence of being obliged to keep later hours, are unfitted for their work; but there is really no particular reason why this should be the case, as a different staff comes on duty towards the evening, the members of which, at several clubs, are allotted32 a certain proportion of any fines.
The latest club of all used formerly to be the Garrick, where, in the days when the late Sir Henry Irving, Mr. Toole, and others, came to supper in 184the small dining-room, very late or rather very early hours indeed were kept. Within the last few years, late sittings have ceased to be the order of the day except on certain occasions, and new rules have been made, the general tendency of which is to encourage a comparatively early retirement33 to bed. An exception, however, is made in favour of Saturday night, the traditional evening for suppers at the Garrick.
One of the latest clubs in London used to be the St. James’, founded more than forty years ago by the late Marquis d’Azeglio and others. One of the objects for which this club was formed was to provide a meeting-place for secretaries and attachés after balls and parties, and for this reason no fine at all was inflicted before 4 p.m. It may also be added that in former years such fines as did exist were not very rigorously enforced. Quite a different state of affairs, however, now prevails, the whole scale of fines having been readjusted some years ago, owing to which—and other causes—late sittings are now things of the past.
The Beefsteak Club, like the Garrick, once contained quite a number of members who had a great disinclination to go to bed, and who lingered late over the pleasant talk of the supper-table. Here also the spirit of the age has effected a change, for practically all the old school of Beefsteakers, of which that most delightful34 of men, the late Joseph Knight15, was such a brilliant example, are gone, and the hours kept are now very reasonable.
The Turf Club, which used formerly to be full of people after the theatres were closed, is now 185somewhat deserted35 at night, and the same state of affairs prevails at practically all the West End clubs.
The late hours once kept by many club-men were in a great measure the cause of the dislike with which a number of old-fashioned, strait-laced people used to regard London clubs, which, as has already been said, were denounced as pernicious resorts where drinking and gaming were by no means unknown. To-day such accusations36 can no longer with any justice be sustained.
In France, however, the state of affairs as regards gaming, at least, is very different, for, owing to the heavy tax levied37 by Government upon club funds, no institution of the nature of a club can be prosperously conducted without some amount of gambling38. Indeed, most French clubs of any social standing17 derive39 a considerable portion of their income from card-money, and not a few permit baccarat, the profits of which, drawn40 from the Cagnotte, bring in a large sum of money to the club funds. In England, however, except in a few exceptional cases—Crockford’s, for instance—no club has ever existed for the avowed41 purpose of play. To begin with, public opinion has always viewed this pastime (which so often degenerates42 into a vice) with extremely unfavourable eyes, and no one of any position has cared to be seen openly risking large sums of money upon the turn of a card. In addition to this, any protracted43 continuance of high play in a club has always been reprobated by a large majority of members as being likely to produce a scandal—and, as a matter of fact, 186a scandal has almost invariably followed in the wake of high play.
The French, many of whom set aside a certain amount of money to be used for play—a bourse du jeu, as it is called—are well aware of the danger of losing their heads at cards; but the vast majority of Englishmen are soon made nervous and excited when once they have been caught by the fascination44 of play. For this reason—or some other—a high game never goes on very long without the occurrence of a catastrophe45, for sooner or later someone will lose a far larger sum of money than he can either afford or pay. The generality of club members limit their gambling to a mild game of bridge, and there is very little play at anything else now. Some twenty years ago, however, there was a slight epidemic46 of the gaming fever in the West End of London, and quite a number of so-called “clubs,” the only object of which was high play, were started, mostly by shrewd veterans of the sporting world, some of whom remembered the days when hazard had extracted such vast sums from the pockets of careless Corinthians, and when wily Crockford conducted his great Temple of Chance in St. James’s Street. Such clubs were, of course, furnished with a committee and an elaborate set of rules, the most respected of which were those relating to the fines. These, after a certain hour, brought much grist to the proprietors’ mills. Such clubs were in reality little but miniature casinos, and the main, if not the sole, qualification for membership lay in being possessed48 of ample funds and a tendency to part with them easily. The chief of these institutions 187were situated49 off Piccadilly and St. James’s Street, about which the spirit of that reckless speculation50 which raged in this neighbourhood so fiercely in the eighteenth century has always had a tendency to linger.
Baccarat was the game played at these haunts, and, though everything was quite fairly conducted, the loss of large sums by well-known young men about town eventually attracted considerable comment, and before very long the Park Club was raided by the police, upon which occasion a high legal luminary51, it is said, was with the greatest difficulty smuggled52 out of the place. A celebrated53 trial, at the end of which baccarat was finally ruled to be an illegal game, resulted in the closing of this club. A somewhat similar institution, the Field Club, rose on its ashes, but this also was eventually raided and put an end to. Since that time one or two small clubs have been formed by a certain number of people desirous of playing bridge or poker54 for high stakes, but all of them have had a brief existence. The clubs just mentioned, it should be added, were quite different from the gaming clubs of the past, the members being rich men well able to take care of themselves, and the only reason for their cessation was that, as the membership was in every case very limited, they got tired of playing at the game of dog eat dog.
Sixty years ago, and later, there was a good deal of high play in London clubs. During the action for libel brought by Lord de Ros, when he had been accused of cheating at Graham’s, one witness admitted that in the course of fifteen years he had 188won ￡35,000, chiefly at whist; another said that his winnings averaged ￡1,600 a year. He generally played from three to five hours daily before dinner, and did not deny often having played all night.
Graham’s, 87 St. James’s Street, was at that time the headquarters of whist, and here it was said Lord Henry Bentinck invented the “Blue Peter,” or call for trumps55.
Here Lieutenant-Colonel Aubrey, who declared that, next to winning, losing was the greatest pleasure in the world, is supposed once to have lost ￡35,000.
Bridge is said to have been first played in London at the Portland in the autumn of 1894, when it was introduced by Lord Brougham.
He was, it is said, playing whist, and, as he dealt the last card, neglected to turn it face upwards56. By way of apology he then said: “I’m sorry, but I thought I was playing bridge;” and by way of explanation he gave a brief description of the new game, which so attracted his fellow-members that it soon took the place of whist.
Bridge, however, had been played long before this in Eastern Europe, and even in Persia, where the present writer perfectly57 remembers it as a popular game as far back as 1888.
The members of a colony of Greeks, indeed, are said to have played a sort of bridge in Manchester eighteen years before this, though the value of no trumps and of four aces58 was rather less than is now the case.
The headquarters of bridge is the Portland Club, now located at the corner of St. James’s Square. It moved here from Stratford Place, its old original 189home having been in Bloomsbury Square. For everything connected with bridge, as it was formerly for whist, the Portland is the acknowledged authority as the arbiter59 of disputes and for the promulgation60 of rules. There are about three hundred members of this club, which admits guests to dine, after which they may play in a small card-room specially61 reserved for their use.
Another card-playing club, which, however, admits no strangers, is the Baldwin, in Pall62 Mall East, which opens at two o’clock in the afternoon. The stakes here are very small.
Besides these admirably-conducted institutions, as Theodore Hook wrote, there are several
“Clubs for men upon the turf (I wonder they aren’t under it);
‘Egad! this is the deuce of clubs.’”
The latter term certainly applied65 to Crockford’s, which was flourishing when the lines in question were written. Here the wily proprietor47 neglected nothing to attract men of fashion of that day, most of whose money eventually drifted into his pockets.
Well knowing the value of a first-class cuisine66, he provided every sort of culinary luxury, and took care that the suppers should be so excellent as to make his club the resort of all sorts of men about town, who flocked in about midnight from White’s, Brooks’s, and the Opera, to titillate67 their palates and try their luck at the hazard-table afterwards. Many who began cautiously, and risked but little, 190by degrees acquired a taste for the excitement of play, and ended by staking large sums, which they generally lost. Some few only were lucky; a certain young blood, for instance, who one night won the price of his “troop” in the Life Guards, purchased it, and never touched a dice68-box again.
If, however, people were more or less sure to lose their money at Crockford’s, they were equally certain of getting admirable food at a quite nominal69 price, and for this reason many men of small means had little reason to complain of the great gambling institution in St. James’s Street.
As was once wittily70 said, a certain text of Scripture71 exactly applied to the proprietor. This was: “He hath filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he hath sent empty away.”
Benjamin Crockford had begun life as a fishmonger near Temple Bar, but, being of a sporting character, was accustomed to stake a few shillings nightly at a low gaming-house kept by George Smith in King’s Place; later, he was lucky in a turf transaction. His first venture as a gaming-house proprietor was the purchase, for ￡100, of a fourth share in a hell at No. 5, King Street. His partners here were men named Abbott, Austin, and Holdsworth, and their operations were not above suspicion. Afterwards Crockford, in partnership72 with two others, opened a French hazard bank at 81 Piccadilly, and here again there was foul-play. The bank cleared ￡200,000 in a very short time; false dice were found on the premises73 and exhibited in a shop window in Bond Street for some days, and Crockford was sued by 191numbers of his victims, but took care to compromise every action before it had entered upon such an acute stage as to entail74 publicity75.
Crockford’s patrons were all men of rank and breeding, the utmost decorum was observed, and society at the club was of the most pleasant and fashionable character. There was no smoking-room, and in the summer evenings the habitués of Crockford’s used to stand outside in the porch, with their cigars, drinking champagne76 and seltzer, and looking at the people going home from parties or the Opera. White’s, except in the afternoons, was deserted, members naturally going across the way, where there was a first-rate supper with wine of unexceptionable quality provided free of cost.
Crockford was well repaid for his liberality in these matters. By the profits of the hazard-table he realized in the course of a few years the enormous sum of ￡1,200,000.
Though the days when a certain number of London clubs were merely gaming-houses in disguise have long gone, there still exist club-men whose principal interest is the turf, and these not infrequently are much interested in the tape, around which they congregate77 when any important race is being run, the while mysterious murmurings and vague vaticinations prevail. Such members are generally young; with the increase of years they become, for the most part, profoundly indifferent to the expensive question of first, second, or third. A few ardent78 enthusiasts79, however, retain their taste for this form of speculation, in spite of the long and inevitable81 series of disappointments which are the 192lot of the vast majority of starting-price backers. Rushing wildly into the club, they fly at once to the tape, generally dashing off to the telephone to put more money into some bookmaker’s pocket.
The cricket enthusiast80 is another great patron of the tape, by which he is either thoroughly82 depressed83 or rendered radiant, according to the comparative failure or success of his favourite county. He is generally a very kindly84 man, of innocent tastes and habits, which speaks well for the humanizing influence of Lord’s and the Oval.
Two clubs which are much frequented by the best class of sporting men are the comparatively old-established Raleigh (founded in 1858), in Regent Street, and the newer Badminton (founded in 1876), in Piccadilly, both of them well-managed institutions.
The Raleigh, which has always enjoyed a reputation for its cooking, in its earlier days was the scene of many an amusing prank85 played by younger members. All this, however, has long been a thing of the past.
A striking change in club-life is the vastly decreased consumption of alcohol. In former days, quite a number of members used every day to imbibe86 a considerable quantity of pernicious brandy and soda87, the excess of which, without doubt, sent so many of the last generation to a premature88 grave. I do not by any means wish to imply that such men became intoxicated89. Thirty or forty years ago, the drinking habits, so prevalent at the beginning of the last century, had already fallen into great disrepute, but brandy and soda was, for some unknown reason, 193considered a fairly harmless drink, and many club-men imbibed90 small quantities of it all the day through without in any way showing the slightest effect. Nevertheless, the continuous stream of alcohol insidiously92 ruined many a fine constitution. Sensible men of the present age study their health far more carefully, and the amount of what are known as “drinks” served daily in the best West End clubs is now very small indeed. On the other hand, “teas,” which forty years ago were little indulged in, are taken by almost everyone.
As late as the early seventies of the past century most clubs contained a few members of decidedly bibulous95 habits. These were often by courtesy known as the “Captain” or “Major,” military titles for which a short term of service in the auxiliary96 forces had scarcely qualified97 them. They were, however, often original characters, whose occasional eccentricities98 deserved the good-humoured toleration with which they were viewed.
To-day, however, a very different state of affairs prevails, and even the slightest tendency to habitual29 excess is seriously resented; a decided94 stigma99, indeed, attaches to anyone even suspected of intemperance100, whilst any open demonstration101 of inebriety102 would certainly call forth demands for drastic measures being applied to the member indulging in such a breach of unwritten club law.
The great diminution103 of drinking amongst the more prosperous classes is nowhere more strikingly shown than by the great decrease of club receipts derived104 from the sale of wine and spirits. On the other hand, the consumption of mineral 194waters and other non-alcoholic beverages105 has largely increased.
Within the last two decades there has been a marked tendency in West End clubland to relax the somewhat harsh restrictions106 formerly in force on Sunday, which in England is so often a day of dulness and gloom, causing one to wonder how Longfellow could ever have described it as “the golden clasp which binds107 together the volume of the week.” At some clubs it is still a very quiet day, no billiards108 or cards being played by members; but in others “Sabbatarian strictness” has been relaxed. In one or two clubs a sort of compromise exists, and members are permitted to play billiards without the services of a marker.
Club customs have, on the whole, changed but little. Curiously109 enough, in spite of the increase of democratic ways in most West End clubs, the custom of sitting down to dinner in evening dress has tended to increase rather than to diminish. At the same time it must be acknowledged that the greatest freedom is permitted in matters of costume, whilst the smart frock-coat, once so conspicuous110 in clubland, has practically disappeared. Straw hats and deerstalkers abound111 on club hat-pegs, and lounge suits are worn throughout the day till dinner; top-hats and black coats have decreased in number.
Almost unlimited112 freedom now prevails as to choice of dress, and sometimes, perhaps, this licence is carried too far.
In the autumn most members of London clubs become wanderers, their houses being given over to painters and decorators, whilst they receive the 195hospitality of other clubs. A few, amongst which are the National Liberal and the Garrick, never close; and, indeed, the membership of the former is too large for this club to be received by any other. The painting and decorating in clubs which never leave their habitations is done by easy stages, one or two rooms at a time being given over to the workmen engaged upon the renovating113 process which London smoke renders so necessary.
Whilst club-life, on the whole, has become less formal and ceremonious, a certain number of old-established clubs still maintain a grave solemnity of tone, and such institutions generally contain a considerable number of “permanent officials”—the class which, whatever party may nominally114 be in control, really runs the country.
These men, whose lives are passed at various Government Offices, in course of time acquire a peculiar look and manner, so entirely different from that of ordinary humanity that the careful observer and student of the “permanent official” is irresistibly115 prompted to inquire whether he can ever have been young? The cut of his clothes, his walk, his mannerisms, and the stately slowness of his movements, all betoken116 a life passed amidst Government forms, schedules, and official papers. Everything he does is prompted by routine, even to the ordering of a generally well-chosen and moderate dinner.
As he is perfectly aware of the fact that he belongs to the real ruling caste of the land, the permanent official not unnaturally117 exudes118 the dignity which he feels is necessary to his high position. 196One pictures him in a tornado119 or an earthquake still speaking in the same measured tones, and briefly120 asking (for he is generally a man of few words) who is responsible?
The permanent official, when married, generally has a very presentable wife, chosen no doubt, like his dinner, with a view to not upsetting the even tenor121 of his daily round. It is, however, almost impossible to believe that he has ever been in love. If he has, any amorous122 communications penned by him must, one is sure, have been carefully copied and docketed for future reference.
Many permanent officials—but not those of the Foreign Office, who are generally agreeable men of the world—develop into mere23 automata, radiating a sort of orderly gloom.
The majority live to a good age, in latter years evolving into an even less vivacious123 type—the “retired124 permanent official”—very solemn and silent, not infrequently pompous125, speaking scarcely at all.
A foreigner of distinction, owing to his official position, had been made an honorary member of a well-known London club. The number of permanent officials included in its membership was such that the club was a veritable Palace of Silence, and the foreigner, becoming depressed by the pervading126 atmosphere of gloom, one day ventured to remark to an acquaintance, a retired official of high rank: “You seem to have little conversation here.” “Meet me to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock in the smoking-room, and we will have a talk,” was the solemn reply. On the morrow the 197foreigner duly repaired to the appointed place and met his friend, who, settling himself upon a comfortable sofa, took out his watch, looked at it, and said: “I am sorry I can only give you twenty-five minutes.” For this space of time they talked, or rather the foreigner did, for the other uttered little but an occasional word. Precisely127 as the clock marked the appointed hour the latter rose, and, somewhat wearily saying good-bye, walked out of the building. Judge of the foreigner’s horror the next morning when, on opening his paper, he read that Sir —— ——, his friend of the day before, had fallen down dead in Pall Mall, stricken by cerebral128 collapse129! The unwonted effort of the previous day’s conversation had been too much for the poor man. For years past he had been used to the almost unbroken silence of the club, which with undeviating regularity131 he was wont130 to frequent. The foreigner, who felt that he was practically guilty of homicide, declared he would speak no more in English clubs, and would take good care to warn his foreign friends against any similar murderous tactics should they come to England.
In many clubs there is a mysterious member or two, about whom nothing seems to be known. No one can say who he is, what locality gave him birth, or what his available means of subsistence may be. He is the child of mystery, nor does he ever attempt to raise the veil, except when he vaguely132 alludes133 to “his people in the North”; but whether he means the North of England or the North of London no one whom he honours with his acquaintance is ever able to discover. Everything about such a man is 198a mystery, including the circumstances which led to his election.
Whilst eccentricity134, for the most part, takes the innocuous form of avoidance of society, there have been people who have suffered from a disquieting135 love of sociability136. Such a one used to make a practice of speaking to all his fellow-members, whether he knew them or not. One day, however, finding himself seated opposite an old gentleman who was reading a newspaper, this individual entirely failed to obtain any answer at all to an incessant137 flow of talk, so, becoming angry, he at last kicked up his foot and sent the paper flying into its astonished reader’s face, the result being that the aggressor very shortly afterwards retired from the club.
It is said that a little leaven138 leaveneth the whole lump, and it is surprising how disagreeable one cantankerous139 man who uses his club can make it to those around him. He is always coming upon the scene when not wanted. If you go up to the library, you find him snoring on the sofa, with the very book you have come in search of in his useless grasp. If you dine accidentally at the club, your table is sure to be placed next to his. Are you having a quiet chat with a friend, most assuredly will this wretched being drop in and spoil the conversation. He is always quarrelling with people, and asking you to support his complaints. Such a man has no friends, and the list of his acquaintances is limited.
In past days old members were sometimes very severe in their comments upon newly-elected young 199men of whose ways they did not approve. One of the latter, just elected to a club, having somehow incurred140 the wrath141 of a certain irascible character, to his amazement142 heard him saying: “What an insupportable cub143 that fellow is! What on earth were the committee doing to elect him! Why, I’d give him a pony144 not to belong now.” This perturbed145 the new member, who left the club-house thinking what course he ought to take, and, as luck would have it, met on the staircase a member who bore the well-deserved reputation of being a thorough man of the world. Stopping the latter, he told him of the insulting remark, and inquired what he ought to do. “Do?” was the reply; “why, nothing at present. After you’ve used the club for another month, you’ll probably be offered a hundred!”
In more or less every club there are one or two solemn-looking members, who are seldom known to speak to anyone, but spend their time in what is, or looks like, deep study. Votaries146 of almost perpetual silence, they are easily made to frown at the sound of conversation. The favourite haunt of such as these is generally the library, which they regard as their own domain147, and where on no account must they be disturbed.
One of this class, who in the more expansive days of his youth, twenty years before, had had a great friend who, after leaving the University, went out to live in the East, was one day, according to his usual wont, reading in the library of his club, when, to his horror, he heard the door briskly open. A robust148 figure, whose countenance149 seemed not 200entirely unfamiliar150, strode up to him, and, seizing his hand heartily151, shook it. “Well, old fellow,” said the intruder, “it’s many a long day since we met. Now let’s hear what you have been doing all these years.” Without saying a word, the ruffled152 student raised a warning finger, and pointed14 at the placard of “Silence” on the mantelpiece.
“I was glad to see the man again,” said he afterwards; “but he had no business to break one of our rules.”
Another kind of club-man is the irascible pedant153, whose idiosyncrasies make conversation almost impossible. He will address you; he will lecture; he will instruct you; but he will not chat with you—conversation with him is a monologue154. He is to preach, you are to listen. If you interrupt him, he will look at you as if sincerely pained by your audacity155; if you advance an opinion, he will promptly156 contradict it; and even if you ask him a question upon a subject of which he knows nothing, he will reply at enormous length.
It was a man of this kind who once described Niagara as a horrid157 place where you couldn’t hear the sound of your own voice.
In former days many clubs included amongst their members a privileged joker or two, to whom very great tolerance158 was extended. This type of individual used to be particularly fond of exercising his propensities159 at the expense of the most solemn and pompous of his fellow-members, on whom he would play all sorts of childish tricks.
On one occasion, for instance, having got possession of an old gentleman’s spectacles, a joker of this 201kind took out the glasses. When the old man found them again, he was much concerned at not being able to see, and exclaimed: “Why, I’ve lost my sight!” Thinking, however, that the impediment to vision might be caused by the dirtiness of the glasses, he then took them off to wipe them, but, not feeling anything, became still more frightened, and cried out: “Why, what’s happened now? I’ve lost my feeling, too!”
Some irrepressible jokers have paid for their love of fun by having to resign their membership. One of them, whose escapades were notorious in London twenty years ago, sitting half asleep in a certain Bohemian club, became very much annoyed at a very red-headed waiter who kept buzzing about his chair. The sight of the fiery160 locks was eventually too much for this wild spirit, and, darting161 up and seizing the man, he emptied an inkstand over his head before he could escape.
The result, of course, was expulsion from the club, besides which very substantial compensation was rightly paid to the poor waiter, who complained that he could not go about his work in a parti-coloured condition, and it would take some time before the effects of the ink disappeared.
Members who have developed undue162 eccentricity occasionally cause uneasiness to their fellow-clubmen, for it is sometimes difficult exactly to define the point where personal idiosyncrasies become disquieting to others.
One individual, whom the writer recollects163, used to enter a certain club and call for all the back numbers which could be obtained of some weekly 202paper, and then sit solemnly writing at a table surrounded by pile upon pile of the periodical in question. After about an hour of this, he would gather his papers together, and, striding up to the porter’s box, would say: “Please inform the Prime Minister that, after due consideration, I have decided that the Cabinet must resign. I will call next Monday and leave word as to the composition of the new one.”
A very eccentric member of one club had a disquieting craze which caused him to walk perpetually up and down stairs. The moment he came in of a morning he started for the top floor, going upstairs with a preoccupied164 air, as though he had serious business on hand. Arrived at the topmost landing, he would strike his forehead with the absent-minded despair of a short memory, then turn on his heel and run down again. This operation he would repeat many times a day. The installation of a lift was said to have been a sad blow to him; at first he regarded it with profound distrust, until, with increasing years, he discovered its value, when he became very objectionable to his fellow-members by his excessive use of it.
Another original character who belonged to a well-known club used to spend a considerable time every day contemplating165 himself in a huge mirror, and bursting into explosive fits of laughter. During the whole of this man’s membership he was supposed only to have once spoken to a fellow-member, who, it should be added, was also rather eccentric.
A less misanthropic166 though highly unconventional 203club-man used to remain in bed all day, getting up only about seven, when he would go to his club to have dinner, which was really a breakfast. This habit, it was said, had been considerably167 strengthened by reason of the fact that, having once broken through it, and got up early in order to witness some sporting event, he had on his return found himself minus his watch—a loss which more than ever convinced him of the dangers of early rising.
Eccentric behaviour in a club once led to an amusing election incident.
A well-known character, who had sat for a certain borough10 for years, got into considerable trouble at his club—a very exclusive one—owing to having one wet day taken off his boots in the smoking-room, and sat warming his stockinged feet before the fire. Complaints were made to the committee, the members of which, highly indignant, at first proposed to turn the offender168 out. Eventually he escaped that extreme indignity169, though he was severely170 reprimanded.
Shortly after this the culprit, owing to a General Election, found himself obliged to defend his seat against an exceedingly active Radical171 opponent possessed of much caustic172 wit.
At this time hustings173 still existed, and candidates exchanged raillery, amounting occasionally to abuse.
Both candidates happened to have foreign names, and both entreated174 the electors to give their votes only to a true-born Englishman.
The sitting member was especially bitter, and indulged 204in uncompromising abuse of his opponent—an alien against whose exotic ways he cautioned the electors.
“Alien indeed!” retorted the other. “Anyhow, I have never been nearly turned out of a club for indecent exposure, like my traducer175!”
“Only my boots!” roared out his opponent.
But all was in vain, and the electors, fully93 convinced that their old member had appeared naked in his club, declined to re-elect him.
About two years ago West End clubs were, it is said, at their worst as regards membership; but since then the tide seems to have turned, and a few then in a parlous176 state have once more found the path of prosperity.
As a matter of fact, the competition of restaurants has improved the cooking in clubs, and many committees have sensibly come to recognize that an attitude of indifference to modern improvements and the changed needs of members does not conduce to the well-being177 of the institutions over which they preside.
Then, too, a number of clubs which had been tottering178 for years have disappeared, with the result that a number of others have gained members. Of late years also, the craze for founding new clubs seems rather to have died away, whilst the fashionable “restaurant clubs,” which for a short time seemed likely to become popular features of West End life, have entirely ceased to exist.
The chief of these was the Amphitryon, established some twenty years ago at 41 Albemarle Street, Piccadilly, and presided over by M. émile 205Aoust, once ma?tre d’h?tel at Bignon’s in Paris. The object of the club was to provide the attractions of a first-rate French restaurant, which at the same time should be absolutely exclusive. The subscription179 was three guineas, and no entrance fee was paid by the first 200 members who joined the club, amongst whom were the then Prince of Wales and the Duke of Connaught.
The small club-house was comfortable enough, and the cuisine left little to grumble180 at. About 700 members were enrolled181, and candidates kept flocking in. Members were only allowed to introduce three guests at a time, for the accommodation in the dining-room was very limited.
An inaugural182 dinner was given to the Prince of Wales, and a highly successful evening was enjoyed by fourteen selected guests at the cost of ￡120. “Kirsch glacé,” one of the plats which figured in the menu, is said to have caused some amusement, the k being called a misprint for h, the first letter of the name of a prominent foreign financier then in great favour with smart society.
The chief faults of this club were its expense and its limited accommodation. A first-class dinner was absurdly expensive, costing close upon ￡10 a head. In addition to this, the little tables were, on account of the smallness of the premises, so closely packed that intimate conversation was next to impossible. It must be observed, however, that there were private rooms upstairs which could be reserved for dinner-parties, and many were given.
After a short time the Amphitryon closed its doors, and left behind it nothing but the memory 206of some excellent dinners and a certain number of heavy unpaid183 bills.
A somewhat similar institution was the Maison Dorée Club, at No. 38 Dover Street. The committee was an influential184 one, numbering amongst its members the Dukes of St. Albans and Wellington, Lord Breadalbane, Lord Dungarvan, Lord Castletown, Lord Camoys, Lord Lurgan, Prince Henry of Pless, and Lord Suffield. The entrance fee was two guineas, and the annual subscription the same sum. The cuisine was under the management of the Maison Dorée, which was then in the last days of its existence in Paris.
The club-house was almost too elaborately decorated. Gold, indeed, had spread even to the area railings, and the lock of the area door itself was adorned185 with heavy dull gold! The pantry-maid, it was said, had a solid gold key to open and shut the latter for the convenience of any favoured policeman! On the whole, the building presented a most imposing186, if rather gaudy187, appearance. The decorations of the dining-room consisted principally of pastoral scenes painted on tapestry188 panels in the French style, whilst a large glass tea-house overhung the garden, and was supposed to form a highly attractive feature.
The club, however, met with the same fate as the Amphitryon; indeed, it fared a great deal worse, the latter for a time, at least, having been a success, which the Maison Dorée never was. Lingering on in a moribund189 state, it soon flickered190 out, its disappearance191 being followed some time later by that of the parent restaurant in Paris, which, owing to 207lack of support, ended its career, to the regret of all lovers of high-class gastronomy192.
Later on, one or two other restaurants made an attempt to introduce “supper clubs,” where members might remain after 12.30, the closing hour which a ridiculous Act of Parliament fixes for all licensed193 premises. None of these supper clubs, however, proved successful. Quite naturally, people soon became tired of seeing the same faces; besides, there is nothing that amuses ladies so much as scanning and criticizing the heterogeneous194 crowds which nightly flock to restaurants after the theatre. Willis’s—for a time much frequented by the smart world—was remodelled195 and spoilt in order to make room for a club of this sort, with the result that an excellent restaurant lost its popularity, and finally disappeared altogether.
Not very many years ago, before the registration196 of clubs was made compulsory197 by law, there were many so-called “clubs” in London which were little but revivals198 of the old night-houses and gaming-hells, though the latter were always subject to occasional raids. Whether the suppression of markedly Bohemian clubs generally was an entirely wise measure seems somewhat doubtful; the mere hounding of dissipation from one haunt to another effects no good, and in all probability the best plan would have been to tolerate a certain number of such resorts, provided they were orderly and did not constitute a nuisance to the neighbourhood.
The gambling clubs, often run by very shady characters, undoubtedly199 did considerable harm to numbers of pigeons, who, however, would in most 208instances have lost their money even had such resorts not existed. The best known of these so-called “clubs,” however, were started solely to pillage200 some rich young dupes who formed the support of such places and their crowd of most dubious201 members. Clubs of this kind often provided a very luxurious202 supper free, it being well worth the while of the proprietor to attract anyone likely to keep the place going. As a rule, the individual in question also laid the odds203 during the afternoon, and some colossal204 pieces of roguery were not infrequently perpetrated in connection with turf speculation. As late as the early eighties of the last century, young men about town were exposed to every kind of insidious91 robbery. The more blatant205 forms of West End brigandage206 seem now to have abated207; but human nature does not change, and very likely they have merely altered in form.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
formerly
|
|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
con
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
pivot
|
|
| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
illustrating
|
|
| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
renowned
|
|
| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
obsolete
|
|
| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
lobster
|
|
| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
borough
|
|
| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
controversy
|
|
| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
clergy
|
|
| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
codified
|
|
| v.把（法律）编成法典( codify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
knight
|
|
| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
breach
|
|
| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
outraged
|
|
| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
remonstrances
|
|
| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
inflicted
|
|
| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
sojourn
|
|
| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
indifference
|
|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
mania
|
|
| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
adoption
|
|
| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
lighting
|
|
| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
habitually
|
|
| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
habitual
|
|
| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
solely
|
|
| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
allotted
|
|
| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
retirement
|
|
| n.退休，退职 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
deserted
|
|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
accusations
|
|
| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
levied
|
|
| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
gambling
|
|
| n.赌博；投机 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
derive
|
|
| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
avowed
|
|
| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
degenerates
|
|
| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
protracted
|
|
| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
fascination
|
|
| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
catastrophe
|
|
| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
epidemic
|
|
| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
proprietor
|
|
| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
situated
|
|
| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
speculation
|
|
| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
luminary
|
|
| n.名人，天体 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
smuggled
|
|
| 水货 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
celebrated
|
|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
poker
|
|
| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
trumps
|
|
| abbr.trumpets 喇叭；小号；喇叭形状的东西；喇叭筒v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的过去式 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
upwards
|
|
| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
aces
|
|
| abbr.adjustable convertible-rate equity security (units) 可调节的股本证券兑换率；aircraft ejection seat 飞机弹射座椅；automatic control evaluation simulator 自动控制评估模拟器n.擅长…的人( ace的名词复数 )；精于…的人；（ 网球 ）（对手接不到发球的）发球得分；爱司球 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
arbiter
|
|
| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
promulgation
|
|
| n.颁布 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
specially
|
|
| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
pall
|
|
| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
pervert
|
|
| n.堕落者，反常者；vt.误用，滥用；使人堕落，使入邪路 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
knaves
|
|
| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
applied
|
|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
cuisine
|
|
| n.烹调，烹饪法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
titillate
|
|
| v.挑逗；使兴奋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
dice
|
|
| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
nominal
|
|
| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
wittily
|
|
| 机智地，机敏地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
scripture
|
|
| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
partnership
|
|
| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
premises
|
|
| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
entail
|
|
| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
publicity
|
|
| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
champagne
|
|
| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
congregate
|
|
| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
ardent
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
enthusiasts
|
|
| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
enthusiast
|
|
| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
inevitable
|
|
| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
depressed
|
|
| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
prank
|
|
| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
imbibe
|
|
| v.喝，饮；吸入，吸收 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
soda
|
|
| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
premature
|
|
| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
intoxicated
|
|
| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
imbibed
|
|
| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
insidious
|
|
| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
insidiously
|
|
| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
bibulous
|
|
| adj.高度吸收的，酗酒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
auxiliary
|
|
| adj.辅助的，备用的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
qualified
|
|
| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
eccentricities
|
|
| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
stigma
|
|
| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
intemperance
|
|
| n.放纵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
demonstration
|
|
| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
inebriety
|
|
| n.醉，陶醉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
diminution
|
|
| n.减少；变小 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
derived
|
|
| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
beverages
|
|
| n.饮料( beverage的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
restrictions
|
|
| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
binds
|
|
| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
billiards
|
|
| n.台球 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
curiously
|
|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
conspicuous
|
|
| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
abound
|
|
| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
unlimited
|
|
| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
renovating
|
|
| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
nominally
|
|
| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
irresistibly
|
|
| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
betoken
|
|
| v.预示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
unnaturally
|
|
| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
exudes
|
|
| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的第三人称单数 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
tornado
|
|
| n.飓风，龙卷风 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
briefly
|
|
| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
tenor
|
|
| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
amorous
|
|
| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
vivacious
|
|
| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
pompous
|
|
| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
pervading
|
|
| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
precisely
|
|
| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
cerebral
|
|
| adj.脑的，大脑的；有智力的，理智型的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
collapse
|
|
| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
wont
|
|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
regularity
|
|
| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
vaguely
|
|
| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
alludes
|
|
| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
eccentricity
|
|
| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
disquieting
|
|
| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
sociability
|
|
| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
incessant
|
|
| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
leaven
|
|
| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
cantankerous
|
|
| adj.爱争吵的，脾气不好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
incurred
|
|
| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
wrath
|
|
| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
amazement
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
cub
|
|
| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
pony
|
|
| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
perturbed
|
|
| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
votaries
|
|
| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
147
domain
|
|
| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
robust
|
|
| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
unfamiliar
|
|
| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
heartily
|
|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
ruffled
|
|
| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
pedant
|
|
| n.迂儒；卖弄学问的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
monologue
|
|
| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
audacity
|
|
| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
promptly
|
|
| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
horrid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
tolerance
|
|
| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
propensities
|
|
| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
fiery
|
|
| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
darting
|
|
| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
undue
|
|
| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
recollects
|
|
| v.记起，想起( recollect的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
preoccupied
|
|
| 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) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
contemplating
|
|
| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
misanthropic
|
|
| adj.厌恶人类的，憎恶（或蔑视）世人的；愤世嫉俗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
considerably
|
|
| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
offender
|
|
| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
indignity
|
|
| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
severely
|
|
| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
radical
|
|
| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
caustic
|
|
| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
hustings
|
|
| n.竞选活动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
174
entreated
|
|
| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
175
traducer
|
|
| n.诽谤者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
176
parlous
|
|
| adj.危险的，不确定的，难对付的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
177
well-being
|
|
| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
178
tottering
|
|
| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
179
subscription
|
|
| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
180
grumble
|
|
| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
181
enrolled
|
|
| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
182
inaugural
|
|
| adj.就职的；n.就职典礼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
183
unpaid
|
|
| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
184
influential
|
|
| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
185
adorned
|
|
| [计]被修饰的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
186
imposing
|
|
| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
187
gaudy
|
|
| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
188
tapestry
|
|
| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
189
moribund
|
|
| adj.即将结束的，垂死的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
190
flickered
|
|
| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
191
disappearance
|
|
| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
192
gastronomy
|
|
| n.美食法；美食学 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
193
licensed
|
|
| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
194
heterogeneous
|
|
| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
195
remodelled
|
|
| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
196
registration
|
|
| n.登记，注册，挂号 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
197
compulsory
|
|
| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
198
revivals
|
|
| n.复活( revival的名词复数 )；再生；复兴；（老戏多年后）重新上演 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
199
undoubtedly
|
|
| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
200
pillage
|
|
| v.抢劫；掠夺；n.抢劫，掠夺；掠夺物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
201
dubious
|
|
| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
202
luxurious
|
|
| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
203
odds
|
|
| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
204
colossal
|
|
| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
205
blatant
|
|
| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
206
brigandage
|
|
| n.抢劫；盗窃；土匪；强盗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
207
abated
|
|
| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |