is still ample room even in the long-settled States of New
Hampshire and Vermont.

But to return to my traveler, whom, having brought so far, I must
send on. Let him go on from Gorham to Quebec and the heights of
Abraham, stopping at Sherbrooke that he might visit from thence the
Lake of Memphra Magog. As to the manner of traveling over this
ground I shall say a little in the next chapter, when I come to the
progress of myself and my wife. From Quebec he will go up the St.
Lawrence to Montreal. He will visit Ottawa, the new capital, and
Toronto. He will cross the lake to Niagara, resting probably at
the Clifton House on the Canada side. He will then pass on to
Albany, taking the Trenton Falls on his way. From Albany he will
go down the Hudson to West Point. He cannot stop at the Catskill
Mountains, for the hotel will be closed. And then he will take the
river boat, and in a few hours will find himself at New York. If
he desires to go into American city society, he will find New York
agreeable; but in that case he must exceed his two months. If he
do not so desire, a short sojourn at New York will show him all
that there is to be seen and all that there is not to be seen in
that great city. That the Cunard line of steamers will bring him
safely back to Liverpool in about eleven days, I need not tell to
any Englishman, or, as I believe, to any American. So much, in the
spirit of a guide, I vouchsafe to all who are willing to take my
counsel--thereby anticipating Murray, and leaving these few pages
as a legacy to him or to his collaborateurs.

I cannot say that I like the hotels in those parts, or, indeed, the
mode of life at American hotels in general. In order that I may
not unjustly defame them, I will commence these observations by
declaring that they are cheap to those who choose to practice the
economy which they encourage, that the viands are profuse in
quantity and wholesome in quality, that the attendance is quick and
unsparing, and that travelers are never annoyed by that grasping,
greedy hunger and thirst after francs and shillings which disgrace,
in Europe, many English and many continental inns. All this is, as
must be admitted, great praise; and yet I do not like the American
hotels.

One is in a free country, and has come from a country in which one
has been brought up to hug one's chains--so at least the English
traveler is constantly assured--and yet in an American inn one can
never do as one likes. A terrific gong sounds early in the
morning, breaking one's sweet slumbers; and then a second gong,
sounding some thirty minutes later, makes you understand that you
must proceed to breakfast whether you be dressed or no. You
certainly can go on with your toilet, and obtain your meal after
half an hour's delay. Nobody actually scolds you for so doing, but
the breakfast is, as they say in this country, "through." You sit
down alone, and the attendant stands immediately over you.
Probably there are two so standing. They fill your cup the instant
it is empty. They tender you fresh food before that which has
disappeared from your plate has been swallowed. They begrudge you
no amount that you can eat or drink; but they begrudge you a single
moment that you sit there neither eating nor drinking. This is
your fate if you're too late; and therefore, as a rule, you are not
late. In that case, you form one of a long row of eaters who
proceed through their work with a solid energy that is past all
praise. It is wrong to say that Americans will not talk at their
meals. I never met but few who would not talk to me, at any rate
till I got to the far West; but I have rarely found that they would
address me first. Then the dinner comes early--at least it always
does so in New England--and the ceremony is much of the same kind.
You came there to eat, and the food is pressed upon you ad nauseam.
But, as far as one can see, there is no drinking. In these days, I
am quite aware that drinking has become improper, even in England.
We are apt, at home, to speak of wine as a thing tabooed, wondering
how our fathers lived and swilled. I believe that, as a fact, we
drink as much as they did; but, nevertheless, that is our theory.
I confess, however, that I like wine. It is very wicked, but it
seems to me that my dinner goes down better with a glass of sherry
than without it. As a rule, I always did get it at hotels in
America. But I had no comfort with it. Sherry they do not
understand at all. Of course I am only speaking of hotels. Their
claret they get exclusively from Mr. Gladstone, and, looking at the
quality, have a right to quarrel even with Mr. Gladstone's price.
But it is not the quality of the wine that I hereby intend to
subject to ignominy so much as the want of any opportunity for
drinking it. After dinner, if all that I hear be true, the
gentlemen occasionally drop into the hotel bar and "liquor up." Or
rather this is not done specially after dinner, but, without
prejudice to the hour, at any time that may be found desirable. I
also have "liquored up," but I cannot say that I enjoy the process.
I do not intend hereby to accuse Americans of drinking much; but I
maintain that what they do drink, they drink in the most
uncomfortable manner that the imagination can devise.

The greatest luxury at an English inn is one's tea, one's fire, and
one's book. Such an arrangement is not practicable at an American
hotel. Tea, like breakfast, is a great meal, at which meat should
be eaten, generally with the addition of much jelly, jam, and sweet
preserve; but no person delays over his teacup. I love to have my
teacup emptied and filled with gradual pauses, so that time for
oblivion may accrue, and no exact record be taken. No such meal is
known at American hotels. It is possible to hire a separate room,
and have one's meals served in it; but in doing so a man runs
counter to all the institutions of the country, and a woman does so
equally. A stranger does not wish to be viewed askance by all
around him; and the rule which holds that men at Rome should do as
Romans do, if true anywhere, is true in America. Therefore I say


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