Читать книгу Cakes & Ale - Spencer Edward - Страница 20

What memories do these words conjure up of a snug coffee-room, hung with hunting prints, and portraits of Derby winners, and churches, and well-hung game; with its oak panellings, easy arm-chairs, blazing fire, snowy naperies, and bright silver. The cheery host, with well-lined paunch, and fat, wheezy voice, which wishes you good-morning, and hopes you have passed a comfortable night between the lavender-scented sheets. The fatherly interest which “William,” the grey-headed waiter, takes in you—stranger or habitué—and the more than fatherly interest which you take in the good cheer, from home-made “sassingers” to new-laid eggs, and heather honey, not forgetting a slice out of the mammoth York ham, beneath whose weight the old sideboard absolutely grunts.

Heigho! we, or they, have changed all that. The poet who found his “warmest welcome in an inn” was, naturally enough, writing of his own time. I don’t like fault-finding, but must needs declare that the “warmest” part of an inn welcome to be found nowadays is the bill. As long as you pay it (or have plenty of luggage to leave behind in default), and make yourself agreeable to the fair and haughty bookkeeper (if it’s a “she”) who allots you your bedroom, and bullies the page-boy, nobody in the modern inn cares particularly what becomes of you. You lose your individuality, and become “Number 325.” Instead of welcome, distrust lurks, large, on the very threshold.