Moreover, I consider myself as qualified4 to write a chapter on hotels — not only on the hotels of America, but on hotels generally. I have myself been much too frequently a sojourner5 at hotels. I think I know what a hotel should be, and what it should not be; and am almost inclined to believe, in my pride, that I could myself fill the position of a landlord with some chance of social success, though probably with none of satisfactory pecuniary7 results.
Of all hotels known to me, I am inclined to think that the Swiss are the best. The things wanted at a hotel are, I fancy, mainly as follows: a clean bed-room, with a good and clean bed, and with it also plenty of water. Good food, well dressed and served at convenient hours, which hours should on occasions be allowed to stretch themselves. Wines that shall be drinkable. Quick attendance. Bills that shall not be absolutely extortionate, smiling faces, and an absence of foul8 smells. There are many who desire more than this — who expect exquisite9 cookery, choice wines, subservient10 domestics, distinguished11 consideration, and the strictest economy; but they are uneducated travelers, who are going through the apprenticeship12 of their hotel lives; who may probably never become free of the travelers’ guild13, or learn to distinguish that which they may fairly hope to attain14 from that which they can never accomplish.
Taking them as a whole, I think that the Swiss hotels are the best. They are perhaps a little close in the matter of cold water, but even as to this they generally give way to pressure. The pressure, however, must not be violent, but gentle rather, and well continued. Their bed-rooms are excellent. Their cookery is good, and to the outward senses is cleanly. The people are civil. The whole work of the house is carried on upon fixed15 rules which tend to the comfort of the establishment. They are not cheap, and not always quite honest. But the exorbitance16 or dishonesty of their charges rarely exceeds a certain reasonable scale, and hardly ever demands the bitter misery17 of a remonstrance18.
The inns of the Tyrol are, I think, the cheapest I have known — affording the traveler what he requires for half the price, or less than half demanded in Switzerland. But the other half is taken out in stench and nastiness. As tourists scatter19 themselves more profusely20, the prices of the Tyrol will no doubt rise. Let us hope that increased prices will bring with them besoms, scrubbing-brushes, and other much-needed articles of cleanliness.
The inns of the north of Italy are very good; and, indeed, the Italian inns throughout, as far as I know them, are much better than the name they bear. The Italians are a civil, kindly21 people, and do for you, at any rate, the best they can. Perhaps the unwary traveler may be cheated. Ignorant of the language, he may be called on to pay more than the man who speaks it and who can bargain in the Italian fashion as to price. It has often been my lot, I doubt not, to be so cheated; but then I have been cheated with a grace that has been worth all the money. The ordinary prices of Italian inns are by no means high.
I have seldom thoroughly22 liked the inns of Germany which I have known. They are not clean, and water is very scarce. Smiles, too, are generally wanting, and I have usually fancied myself to be regarded as a piece of goods out of which so much profit was to be made.
The dearest hotels I know are the French — and certainly not the best. In the provinces they are by no means so cleanly as those of Italy. Their wines are generally abominable23, and their cookery often disgusting. In Paris grand dinners may no doubt be had, and luxuries of every description — except the luxury of comfort. Cotton-velvet sofas and ormolu clocks stand in the place of convenient furniture; and logs of wood, at a franc a log, fail to impart to you the heat which the freezing cold of a Paris winter demands. They used to make good coffee in Paris, but even that is a thing of the past. I fancy that they import their brandy from England and manufacture their own cigars. French wines you may get good at a Paris hotel; but you would drink them as good and much cheaper if you bought them in London and took them with you.
The worst hotels I know are in the Havana. Of course I do not speak here of chance mountain huts, or small, far-off roadside hostels24, in which the traveler may find himself from time to time. All such are to be counted apart, and must be judged on their merits by the circumstances which surround them. But with reference to places of wide resort, nothing can beat the hotels of the Havana in filth25, discomfort26, habits of abomination, and absence of everything which the traveler desires. All the world does not go to the Havana, and the subject is not therefore one of general interest. But in speaking of hotels at large, so much I find myself bound to say.
In all the countries to which I have alluded27 the guests of the house are expected to sit down together at one table. Conversation is at any rate possible; and there is the show, if not the reality, of society.
And now one word as to English inns. I do not think that we Englishmen have any great right to be proud of them. The worst about them is that they deteriorate28 from year to year, instead of becoming better. We used to hear much of the comfort of the old English wayside inn, but the old English wayside inn has gone. The railway hotel has taken its place; and the railway hotel is too frequently gloomy, desolate29, comfortless, and almost suicidal. In England, too, since the old days are gone, there are wanting the landlord’s bow and the kindly smile of his stout30 wife. Who now knows the landlord of an inn, or cares to inquire whether or no there be a landlady31? The old welcome is wanting; and the cheery, warm air, which used to atone32 for the bad port and tough beef, has passed away — while the port is still bad and the beef too often tough.
In England, and only in England as I believe, is maintained in hotel life the theory of solitary33 existence. The sojourner at an English inn — unless he be a commercial traveler, and as such a member of a universal, peripatetic34 tradesman’s club — lives alone. He has his breakfast alone, his dinner alone, his pint35 of wine alone, and his cup of tea alone. It is not considered practicable that two strangers should sit at the same table or cut from the same dish. Consequently his dinner is cooked for him separately, and the hotel keeper can hardly afford to give him a good dinner. He has two modes of life from which to choose. He either lives in a public room — called a coffee-room — and there occupies, during his comfortless meal, a separate small table, too frequently removed from fire and light, though generally exposed to draughts36, or else he indulges in the luxury of a private sitting-room37, and endeavors to find solace38 on an old horse-hair sofa, at the cost of seven shillings a day. His bed-room is not so arranged that he can use it as a sitting-room. Under either phase of life he can rarely find himself comfortable, and therefore he lives as little at a hotel as the circumstances of his business or of his pleasure will allow. I do not think that any of the requisites39 of a good inn are habitually40 to be found in perfection at our Kings’ Heads and White Horses, though the falling off is not so lamentably41 distressing42 as it sometimes is in other countries. The bed-rooms are dingy43 rather than dirty. Extra payment to servants will generally produce a tub of cold water. The food is never good, but it is usually eatable, and you may have it when you please. The wines are almost always bad, but the traveler can fall back upon beer. The attendance is good, provided always that the payment for it is liberal. The cost is generally too high, and unfortunately grows larger and larger from year to year. Smiling faces are out of the question unless specially44 paid for; and as to that matter of foul smells, there is often room for improvement. An English inn to a solitary traveler without employment is an embodiment of dreary46 desolation. The excuse to be made for this is that English men and women do not live much at inns in their own country.
The American inn differs from all those of which I have made mention, and is altogether an institution apart, and a thing of itself. Hotels in America are very much larger and more numerous than in other countries. They are to be found in all towns, and I may almost say in all villages. In England and on the Continent we find them on the recognized routes of travel and in towns of commercial or social importance. On unfrequented roads and in villages there is usually some small house of public entertainment in which the unexpected traveler may obtain food and shelter, and in which the expected boon47 companions of the neighborhood smoke their nightly pipes and drink their nightly tipple48. But in the States of America the first sign of an incipient49 settlement is a hotel five stories high, with an office, a bar, a cloak room, three gentlemen’s parlors51, two ladies’ parlors, and a ladies’ entrance, and two hundred bedrooms.
These of course are all built with a view to profit, and it may be presumed that in each case the originators of the speculation52 enter into some calculation as to their expected guests. Whence are to come the sleepers53 in those two hundred bed-rooms, and who is to pay for the gaudy54 sofas and numerous lounging chairs of the ladies’ parlors? In all other countries the expectation would extend itself simply to travelers — to travelers or to strangers sojourning in the land. But this is by no means the case as to these speculations55 in America. When the new hotel rises up in the wilderness56, it is presumed that people will come there with the express object of inhabiting it. The hotel itself will create a population, as the railways do. With us railways run to the towns; but in the States the towns run to the railways. It is the same thing with the hotels.
Housekeeping is not popular with young married people in America, and there are various reasons why this should be so. Men there are not fixed in their employment as they are with us. If a young Benedict cannot get along as a lawyer at Salem, perhaps he may thrive as a shoemaker at Thermopylae. Jefferson B. Johnson fails in the lumber57 line at Eleutheria, but hearing of an opening for a Baptist preacher at Big Mud Creek58 moves himself off with his wife and three children at a week’s notice. Aminadab Wiggs takes an engagement as a clerk at a steamboat office on the Pongowonga River, but he goes to his employment with an inward conviction that six months will see him earning his bread elsewhere. Under such circumstances even a large wardrobe is a nuisance, and a collection of furniture would be as appropriate as a drove of elephants. Then again young men and women marry without any means already collected on which to commence their life. They are content to look forward and to hope that such means will come. In so doing they are guilty of no imprudence. It is the way of the country, and, if the man be useful for anything, employment will certainly come to him. But he must live on the fruits of that employment, and can only pay his way from week to week and from day to day. And as a third reason, I think I may allege59 that the mode of life found in these hotels is liked by the people who frequent them. It is to their taste. They are happy, or at any rate contented60, at these hotels, and do not wish for household cares. As to the two first reasons which I have given, I can agree as to the necessity of the case, and quite concur61 as to the expediency62 of marriage under such circumstances. But as to that matter of taste, I cannot concur at all. Anything more forlorn than a young married woman at an American hotel, it is impossible to conceive.
Such are the guests expected for those two hundred bedrooms. The chance travelers are but chance additions to these, and are not generally the mainstay of the house. As a matter of course the accommodation for travelers which these hotels afford increases and creates traveling. Men come because they know they will be fed and bedded at a moderate cost, and in an easy way, suited to their tastes. With us, and throughout Europe, inquiry63 is made before an unaccustomed journey is commenced, on that serious question of wayside food and shelter. But in the States no such question is needed. A big hotel is a matter of course, and therefore men travel. Everybody travels in the States. The railways and the hotels between them have so churned up the people that an untraveled man or woman is a rare animal. We are apt to suppose that travelers make roads, and that guests create hotels; but the cause and effect run exactly in the other way. I am almost disposed to think that we should become cannibals if gentlemen’s legs and ladies arms were hung up for sale in purveyors’ shops.
After this fashion and with these intentions hotels are built. Size and an imposing64 exterior65 are the first requisitions. Everything about them must be on a large scale. A commanding exterior, and a certain interior dignity of demeanor66, is more essential than comfort or civility. Whatever a hotel may be it must not be “mean.” In the American vernacular67 the word mean is very significant. A mean white in the South is a man who owns no slaves. Men are often mean, but actions are seldom so called. A man feels mean when the bluster68 is taken out of him. A mean hotel, conducted in a quiet unostentatious manner, in which the only endeavor made had reference to the comfort of a few guests, would find no favor in the States. These hotels are not called by the name of any sign, as with us in our provinces. There are no “Presidents’ Heads” or “General Scotts.” Nor by the name of the landlord, or of some former landlord, as with us in London, and in many cities of the Continent. Nor are they called from some country or city which may have been presumed at some time to have had special patronage69 for the establishment. In the nomenclature of American hotels the specialty70 of American hero worship is shown, as in the nomenclature of their children. Every inn is a house, and these houses are generally named after some hero, little known probably in the world at large, but highly estimated in that locality at the moment of the christening.
They are always built on a plan which to a European seems to be most unnecessarily extravagant71 in space. It is not unfrequently the case that the greater portion of the ground floor is occupied by rooms and halls which make no return to the house whatever. The visitor enters a great hall by the front door, and almost invariably finds it full of men who are idling about, sitting round on stationary72 seats, talking in a listless manner, and getting through their time as though the place were a public lounging-room. And so it is. The chances are that not half the crowd are guests at the hotel. I will now follow the visitor as he makes his way up to the office. Every hotel has an office. To call this place the bar, as I have done too frequently, is a lamentable73 error. The bar is held in a separate room appropriated solely74 to drinking. To the office, which is in fact a long open bar, the guest walks up, and there inscribes75 his name in a book. This inscription76 was to me a moment of misery which I could never go through with equanimity77. As the name is written, and as the request for accommodation is made, half a dozen loungers look over your name and listen to what you say. They listen attentively78, and spell your name carefully, but the great man behind the bar does not seem to listen or to heed79 you; your destiny is never imparted to you on the instant. If your wife or any other woman be with you — the word “lady” is made so absolutely distasteful in American hotels that I cannot bring myself to use it in writing of them — she has been carried off to a lady’s waiting room, and there remains80 in august wretchedness till the great man at the bar shall have decided81 on her fate. I have never been quite able to fathom82 the mystery of these delays. I think they must have originated in the necessity of waiting to see what might be the influx83 of travelers at the moment, and then have become exaggerated and brought to their present normal state by the gratified feeling of almost divine power with which for the time it invests that despotic arbiter84. I have found it always the same, though arriving with no crowd, by a conveyance85 of my own, when no other expectant guests were following me. The great man has listened to my request in silence, with an imperturbable86 face, and has usually continued his conversation with some loafing friend, who at the time is probably scrutinizing87 my name in the book. I have often suffered in patience, but patience is not specially the badge of my tribe, and I have sometimes spoken out rather freely. If I may presume to give advice to my traveling countrymen how to act under such circumstances, I should recommend to them freedom of speech rather than patience. The great man, when freely addressed, generally opens his eyes, and selects the key of your room without further delay. I am inclined to think that the selection will not be made in any way to your detriment88 by reason of that freedom of speech. The lady in the ballad89 who spoke1 out her own mind to Lord Bateman, was sent to her home honorably in a coach and three. Had she held her tongue, we are justified90 in presuming that she would have been returned on a pillion behind a servant.
I have been greatly annoyed by that want of speech. I have repeatedly asked for room, and received no syllable91 in return. I have persisted in my request, and the clerk has nodded his head at me. Until a traveler is known, these gentlemen are singularly sparing of speech, especially in the West. The same economy of words runs down from the great man at the office all through the servants of the establishment. It arises, I believe, entirely92 from that want of courtesy which democratic institutions create. The man whom you address has to make a battle against the state of subservience93 presumed to be indicated by his position, and he does so by declaring his indifference94 to the person on whose wants he is paid to attend. I have been honored on one or two occasions by the subsequent intimacy95 of these great men at the hotel offices, and have then found them ready enough at conversation.
That necessity of making your request for room before a public audience is not in itself agreeable, and sometimes entails96 a conversation which might be more comfortably made in private. “What do you mean by a dressing-room, and why do you want one?” Now that is a question which an Englishman feels awkward at answering before five and twenty Americans, with open mouths and eager eyes; but it has to be answered. When I left England, I was assured that I should not find any need for a separate sitting-room, seeing that drawing-rooms more or less sumptuous97 were prepared for the accommodation of “ladies.” At first we attempted to follow the advice given to us, but we broke down. A man and his wife traveling from town to town, and making no sojourn6 on his way, may eat and sleep at a hotel without a private parlor50. But an English woman cannot live in comfort for a week, or even in comfort for a day, at any of these houses, without a sitting-room for herself. The ladies’ drawing-room is a desolate wilderness. The American women themselves do not use it. It is generally empty, or occupied by some forlorn spinster, eliciting98 harsh sounds from the wretched piano which it contains.
The price at these hotels throughout the union is nearly always the same, viz., two and a half dollars a day, for which a bed-room is given and as many meals as the guest can contrive99 to eat. This is the price for chance guests. The cost to monthly boarders is, I believe, not more than the half of this. Ten shillings a day, therefore, covers everything that is absolutely necessary, servants included; and this must be said in praise of these inns — that the traveler can compute100 his expenses accurately101, and can absolutely bring them within that daily sum of ten shillings. This includes a great deal of eating, a great deal of attendance, the use of reading-room and smoking-room — which, however, always seem to be open to the public as well as to the guests — and a bed-room, with accommodation which is at any rate as good as the average accommodation of hotels in Europe. In the large Eastern towns baths are attached to many of the rooms. I always carry my own, and have never failed in getting water. It must be acknowledged that the price is very cheap. It is so cheap that I believe it affords, as a rule, no profit whatsoever102. The profit is made upon extra charges, and they are higher than in any other country that I have visited. They are so high that I consider traveling in America, for an Englishman with his wife or family, to be more expensive than traveling in any part of Europe. First in the list of extras comes that matter of the sitting-room, and by that for a man and his wife the whole first expense is at once doubled. The ordinary charge is five dollars, or one pound a day! A guest intending to stay for two or three weeks at a hotel, or perhaps for one week, may, by agreement, have this charge reduced. At one inn I stayed a fortnight, and having made no such agreement, was charged the full sum. I felt myself stirred up to complain, and did in that case remonstrate103. I was asked how much I wished to have returned — for the bill had been paid — and the sum I suggested was at once handed to me. But even with such reduction, the price is very high, and at once makes the American hotel expensive. Wine also at these houses is very costly104, and very bad. The usual price is two dollars (or eight shillings) a bottle. The people of the country rarely drink wine at dinner in the hotels. When they do so, they drink champagne105; but their normal drinking is done separately, at the bar, chiefly before dinner, and at a cheap rate. “A drink,” let it be what it may, invariably costs a dime45, or five pence. But if you must have a glass of sherry with your dinner, it costs two dollars; for sherry does not grow into pint bottles in the States. But the guest who remains for two days can have his wine kept for him. Washing also is an expensive luxury. The price of this is invariable, being always four pence for everything washed. A cambric handkerchief or muslin dress all come out at the same price. For those who are cunning in the matter this may do very well; but for men and women whose cuffs106 and collars are numerous it becomes expensive. The craft of those who are cunning is shown, I think, in little internal washings, by which the cambric handkerchiefs are kept out of the list, while the muslin dresses are placed upon it. I am led to this surmise107 by the energetic measures taken by the hotelkeepers to prevent such domestic washings, and by the denunciations which in every hotel are pasted up in every room against the practice. I could not at first understand why I was always warned against washing my own clothes in my own bed-room, and told that no foreign laundress could on any account be admitted into the house. The injunctions given on this head are almost frantic108 in their energy, and therefore I conceive that hotel-keepers find themselves exposed to much suffering in the matter. At these hotels they wash with great rapidity, sending you back your clothes in four or five hours if you desire it.
Another very stringent109 order is placed before the face of all visitors at American hotels, desiring them on no account to have valuable property in their rooms. I presume that there must have been some difficulty in this matter in bygone years; for in every State a law has been passed declaring that hotel-keepers shall not be held responsible for money or jewels stolen out of rooms in their houses, provided that they are furnished with safes for keeping such money and give due caution to their guests on the subject. The due caution is always given, but I have seldom myself taken any notice of it. I have always left my portmanteau open, and have kept my money usually in a traveling-desk in my room; but I never to my knowledge lost anything. The world, I think, gives itself credit for more thieves than it possesses. As to the female servants at American inns, they are generally all that is disagreeable. They are uncivil, impudent110, dirty, slow — provoking to a degree. But I believe that they keep their hands from picking and stealing.
I never yet made a single comfortable meal at an American hotel, or rose from my breakfast or dinner with that feeling of satisfaction which should, I think, be felt at such moments in a civilized111 land in which cookery prevails as an art. I have had enough, and have been healthy, and am thankful. But that thankfulness is altogether a matter apart, and does not bear upon the question. If need be, I can eat food that is disagreeable to my palate and make no complaint. But I hold it to be compatible with the principles of an advanced Christianity to prefer food that is palatable113. I never could get any of that kind at an American hotel. All meal-times at such houses were to me periods of disagreeable duty; and at this moment, as I write these lines at the hotel in which I am still staying, I pine for an English leg of mutton. But I do not wish it to be supposed that the fault of which I complain — for it is a grievous fault — is incidental to America as a nation. I have stayed in private houses, and have daily sat down to dinners quite as good as any my own kitchen could afford me. Their dinner parties are generally well done, and as a people they are by no means indifferent to the nature of their comestibles. It is of the hotels that I speak; and of them I again say that eating in them is a disagreeable task — a painful labor114. It is as a schoolboy’s lesson, or the six hours’ confinement115 of a clerk at his desk.
The mode of eating is as follows: Certain feeding hours are named, which generally include nearly all the day. Breakfast from six till ten. Dinner from one till five. Tea from six till nine. Supper from nine till twelve. When the guest presents himself at any of these hours, he is marshaled to a seat, and a bill is put into his hand containing the names of all the eatables then offered for his choice. The list is incredibly and most unnecessarily long. Then it is that you will see care written on the face of the American hotel liver, as he studies the programme of the coming performance. With men this passes off unnoticed, but with young girls the appearance of the thing is not attractive. The anxious study, the elaborate reading of the daily book, and then the choice proclaimed with clear articulation116: “Boiled mutton and caper117 sauce, roast duck, hashed venison, mashed118 potatoes, poached eggs and spinach119, stewed120 tomatoes. Yes — and, waiter, some squash!” There is no false delicacy121 in the voice by which this order is given, no desire for a gentle whisper. The dinner is ordered with the firm determination of an American heroine; and in some five minutes’ time all the little dishes appear at once, and the lady is surrounded by her banquet.
How I did learn to hate those little dishes and their greasy122 contents! At a London eating-house things are often not very nice, but your meat is put on a plate and comes before you in an edible123 shape. At these hotels it is brought to you in horrid124 little oval dishes, and swims in grease; gravy125 is not an institution in American hotels, but grease has taken its place. It is palpable, undisguised grease, floating in rivers — not grease caused by accidental bad cookery, but grease on purpose. A beef-steak is not a beef-steak unless a quarter of a pound of butter be added to it. Those horrid little dishes! If one thinks of it, how could they have been made to contain Christian112 food? Every article in that long list is liable to the call of any number of guests for four hours. Under such circumstances how can food be made eatable? Your roast mutton is brought to you raw; if you object to that, you are supplied with meat that has been four times brought before the public. At hotels on the Continent of Europe different dinners are cooked at different hours; but here the same dinner is kept always going. The house breakfast is maintained on a similar footing. Huge boilers126 of tea and coffee are stewed down and kept hot. To me those meals were odious127. It is of course open to any one to have separate dinners and separate breakfasts in his own rooms; but by this little is gained and much is lost. He or she who is so exclusive pays twice over for such meals — as they are charged as extras on the bill — and, after all, receives the advantage of no exclusive cooking. Particles from the public dinners are brought to the private room, and the same odious little dishes make their appearance.
But the most striking peculiarity128 of the American hotels is in their public rooms. Of the ladies’ drawing-room I have spoken. There are two, and sometimes three, in one hotel, and they are generally furnished at any rate expensively. It seems to me that the space and the furniture are almost thrown away. At watering-places and sea-side summer hotels they are, I presume, used; but at ordinary hotels they are empty deserts. The intention is good, for they are established with the view of giving to ladies at hotels the comforts of ordinary domestic life; but they fail in their effect. Ladies will not make themselves happy in any room, or with ever so much gilded129 furniture, unless some means of happiness are provided for them. Into these rooms no book is ever brought, no needle-work is introduced; from them no clatter130 of many tongues is ever heard. On a marble table in the middle of the room always stands a large pitcher131 of iced water; and from this a cold, damp, uninviting air is spread through the atmosphere of the ladies’ drawing-room.
Below, on the ground floor, there is, in the first place, the huge entrance hall, at the back of which, behind a bar, the great man of the place keeps the keys and holds his court. There are generally seats around it, in which smokers132 sit — or men not smoking but ruminating133. Opening off from this are reading-rooms, smoking-rooms, shaving-rooms, drinking-rooms, parlors for gentlemen in which smoking is prohibited and which are generally as desolate as ladies’ sitting-rooms above. In those other more congenial chambers134 is always gathered together a crowd apparently135 belonging in no way to the hotel. It would seem that a great portion of an American Inn is as open to the public as an Exchange or as the wayside of the street. In the West, during the early months of this war, the traveler would always see many soldiers among the crowd — not only officers, but privates. They sit in public seats, silent but apparently contented, sometimes for an hour together. All Americans are given to gatherings136 such as these. It is the much-loved institution to which the name of “loafing” has been given.
I do not like the mode of life which prevails in the American hotels. I have come across exceptions, and know one or two that are very comfortable — always excepting that matter of eating and drinking. Taking them as a whole, I do not like their mode of life; but I feel bound to add that the hotels of Canada, which are kept I think always after the same fashion, are infinitely137 worse than those of the United States. I do not like the American hotels; but I must say in their favor that they afford an immense amount of accommodation. The traveler is rarely told that a hotel is full, so that traveling in America is without one of those great perils138 to which it is subject in Europe.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
alteration
|
|
| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
franchise
|
|
| n.特许，特权，专营权，特许权 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
qualified
|
|
| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
sojourner
|
|
| n.旅居者，寄居者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
sojourn
|
|
| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
pecuniary
|
|
| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
foul
|
|
| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
subservient
|
|
| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
apprenticeship
|
|
| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
guild
|
|
| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
attain
|
|
| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
exorbitance
|
|
| n.过度，不当 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
17
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
remonstrance
|
|
| n抗议，抱怨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
scatter
|
|
| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
profusely
|
|
| ad.abundantly | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
abominable
|
|
| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
hostels
|
|
| n.旅舍，招待所( hostel的名词复数 )；青年宿舍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
filth
|
|
| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
discomfort
|
|
| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
alluded
|
|
| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
deteriorate
|
|
| v.变坏；恶化；退化 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
desolate
|
|
| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
landlady
|
|
| n.女房东，女地主 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
atone
|
|
| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
peripatetic
|
|
| adj.漫游的，逍遥派的，巡回的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
pint
|
|
| n.品脱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
draughts
|
|
| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
sitting-room
|
|
| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
solace
|
|
| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
requisites
|
|
| n.必要的事物( requisite的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
habitually
|
|
| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
lamentably
|
|
| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
distressing
|
|
| a.使人痛苦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
dingy
|
|
| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
specially
|
|
| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
dime
|
|
| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
boon
|
|
| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
tipple
|
|
| n.常喝的酒；v.不断喝，饮烈酒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
incipient
|
|
| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
parlor
|
|
| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
parlors
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
speculation
|
|
| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
sleepers
|
|
| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
gaudy
|
|
| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
speculations
|
|
| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
wilderness
|
|
| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
lumber
|
|
| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
creek
|
|
| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
allege
|
|
| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
contented
|
|
| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
concur
|
|
| v.同意，意见一致，互助，同时发生 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
expediency
|
|
| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
inquiry
|
|
| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
imposing
|
|
| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
exterior
|
|
| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
demeanor
|
|
| n.行为；风度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
vernacular
|
|
| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
bluster
|
|
| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
patronage
|
|
| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
specialty
|
|
| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
extravagant
|
|
| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
stationary
|
|
| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
lamentable
|
|
| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
solely
|
|
| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
inscribes
|
|
| v.写，刻( inscribe的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
inscription
|
|
| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
equanimity
|
|
| n.沉着，镇定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
attentively
|
|
| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
heed
|
|
| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
fathom
|
|
| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
influx
|
|
| n.流入，注入 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
arbiter
|
|
| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
conveyance
|
|
| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
imperturbable
|
|
| adj.镇静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
scrutinizing
|
|
| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
detriment
|
|
| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
ballad
|
|
| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
justified
|
|
| a.正当的，有理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
syllable
|
|
| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
subservience
|
|
| n.有利，有益；从属（地位），附属性；屈从，恭顺；媚态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
indifference
|
|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
intimacy
|
|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
entails
|
|
| 使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
sumptuous
|
|
| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
eliciting
|
|
| n. 诱发, 引出 动词elicit的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
contrive
|
|
| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
compute
|
|
| v./n.计算，估计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
accurately
|
|
| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
whatsoever
|
|
| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
remonstrate
|
|
| v.抗议，规劝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
costly
|
|
| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
champagne
|
|
| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
cuffs
|
|
| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
surmise
|
|
| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
frantic
|
|
| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
stringent
|
|
| adj.严厉的；令人信服的；银根紧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
impudent
|
|
| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
civilized
|
|
| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
palatable
|
|
| adj.可口的，美味的；惬意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
labor
|
|
| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
confinement
|
|
| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
articulation
|
|
| n.（清楚的）发音；清晰度，咬合 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
caper
|
|
| v.雀跃，欢蹦；n.雀跃，跳跃；续随子，刺山柑花蕾；嬉戏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
mashed
|
|
| a.捣烂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
spinach
|
|
| n.菠菜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
stewed
|
|
| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
greasy
|
|
| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
edible
|
|
| n.食品，食物；adj.可食用的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
horrid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
gravy
|
|
| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
boilers
|
|
| 锅炉，烧水器，水壶( boiler的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
odious
|
|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
peculiarity
|
|
| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
gilded
|
|
| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
clatter
|
|
| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
pitcher
|
|
| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
smokers
|
|
| 吸烟者( smoker的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
ruminating
|
|
| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
chambers
|
|
| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
gatherings
|
|
| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
infinitely
|
|
| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
perils
|
|
| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |