Obrázky stránek
PDF
ePub

humbug they once believed it to be. The novelty then takes the high place it is entitled to. Meanwhile, the originator is dead in obscurity-dead of the birth of his own idea-while its early nurses continue to be smiled at as men prone to take up with things unproved. We seldom see that the very wise make any adequate apology for the scorn they once vented at both the idea and its patrons. The thoughtless public goes on in enjoyment of the addition to its knowledge and power, scarcely aware of the names of the men who have conferred upon it so great an obligation. And when the next new idea arises, it has to go through precisely the same ordeal, because the terror of making a wrong admission always exceeds the hope of verification in any particular case. Thus it is, that from the mouths of babes Providence sends so much of what blesses mankind, while the wisdom of the sage is turned to foolishness.*

A NOVEL COMPETITION SHOW. I HAD been to look for a friend a long way off-a very long way off; but not being a man of fashion, only a foot-passenger in the journey of life, I don't mind how far I go in search of a friend-east or west, north or south-so that I find him at last. As adverse fate would have it, however, I did not find my friend, and had to return disappointed and vexed.

Of course it began to rain-it always does when you are a long way off. Rain, did I say? it began to spout, as though Jupiter Pluvius had just hit upon a new system of hydraulics, and was making experiments with it upon a grand scale. Before meeting with a cab or omnibus, or coming to any rational place of shelter, I had got dripping wet, and determined doggedly, since matters could not be worse, to go right through it all the way. I was brought up, however, by an advertisement in the window of a public-house, of a nature curious enough to attract a hunter of curiosities like me. It announced a convocation of dogs, just about to come off, under the patronage of a celebrated character; in other words, a dog-show, a kind of canicultural fête, at which the best-bred specimens of the bowwow fraternity would reap the honour of a prize.

[ocr errors]

This was too much for my resolution; I darted at once into the Thingumbob,' and made my way to the exhibition-room-a public-house parlour of the usual dimensions. In the centre, a couple of tables placed together were surmounted with a roomy cage of wood and wire in several compartments. A solitary poodle lay curled up in the bottom of the cage, and his owner, who looked a cross between a bailiff and a stable-keeper, and in whose mouth stuck a short pipe very considerably blacker than his rusty hat, sat contemplating him with perfect satisfaction. In a minute or two, he was joined by another exhibiter, who produced from his pocket a spaniel of King Charles's breed, no bigger than a kitten, and passed it into an upper compartment of the cage. The owner of the poodle had a bull-dog sitting gravely between his knees, and the proprietor of the spaniel had another at his heels. Tokens of recognition, consisting of a species of electric nods almost too rapid for observation, passed between the candidates, but no speech. Two newcomers anticipated any conversation that might have ensued; they were handicraftsmen, shoemakers I think, and each produced a miniature terrier from his pouch, full grown, but not much bigger than a good-sized rat. They then pulled the bell, and ordered stout from the waiter. Other exhibiters now poured in fast, and nearly every man produced his dog, most of them from the pocket. In the course of half an hour, the room

* It is right to mention, that the historical details of this article are all based on authentic documents. Some efforts have been made by the representatives of Symington to establish that he had projected steam-navigation before his patrons, Miller and Taylor;

but the evidence is clearly to the contrary effect.

|

was unpleasantly full, and the cage, too, was thoroughly stocked. Every man drank beer or grog, and smoked, and all talked, save those who roared, together. The odour of the strong rank weed they chose to smoke was almost enough to choke a crocodile-the walls of the room vanished behind the reeking mist that arose on all sides, and the vision of ill-favoured faces that loomed through the gray cloud, reminded me of the grim colossal phantasmagoria which used to haunt my boarding-school couch on a hungry and sleepless night. The floor was literally covered with ugly curs, which had come as spectators-all of the fighting school, and most of them maimed or mutilated by battle. One prodigious Gorgon of a brute-with a chest as broad as a boy's, and whose feet, as he sat motionless beneath a table, met on the ground like the two lines of a capital V-had lost one eye, and the whole of his lower lip; he had a face and forehead of chamois leather, and was covered with half-healed wounds from some recent and desperate encounter.

There were as yet no signs of business. The celebrated character had not made his appearance, or he had delayed his introduction, perhaps, to give the accommodating landlord of the Thingumbob' the benefit of those interesting moments which precede any important event, during which the absorbents are generally in a state of activity. Pending his arrival with the umpires, some of the party got up an exhibition of a different kind, which I had not expected. Several members of the fraternity had brought little square bundles wrapped up in handkerchiefs; these proved to be small bird-cages, each containing a pet bird. One man, opening his cage, put in his forefinger, upon which he brought out a lively goldfinch, which he offered to whistle agin any bird in the room for a crown.' It seemed that the little songster was a celebrated prima donna in its way, and had earned the name which it bore, of the Jenny Lind. Don't you wish you may get it?' was the jeering inquiry from several voices. Give the long odds, and I'll match Piper agin him,' bawled one; but the proposition was not accepted. The little bird plumed itself proudly, and uttered a note of defiance.

[ocr errors]

'Cock-a-doodle-doo!' screamed its proprietor-' all afeared on yer, Jenny, that's what it is, my beautychampion of all England, my little pinch o' feathers. Who bids ten guineas for the champion?'

He

'Not champion yet, if I know it,' said a voice from the abyss of sickening vapour; and a man stepped out of the gloom, bearing a bird perched on his knuckle, as closely resembling the redoubtable champion as it is possible to imagine. accepted the challenge on behalf of his protégé, and producing his money, seated himself in a chair, rested his elbow on the table, and held forth his forefinger as a perch for the bird: the other did the same, while a third person lighted an inch of candle, and stuck it on an upturned pewter-pot between the competitors. The lists thus prepared, the challenger gave the signal by a peculiar sound produced by drawing the air between his lips; and Jenny, after a few low and preparatory flourishes, burst into song. The rival bird responded in a strain equally loud, and both sang in evident emulation of each other, and by degrees stilled all other sounds in the room, save the snorting puffs that rose from some half-hundred pipes. The little creatures grew wondrously excited; their throats swelled, their tiny feathers ruffled up, their eyeballs rolled, their beaks yawned and quivered, while without an instant's pause or let, amidst that horrid reek of filthy tobacco, through which their forms were but just visible, still rushed the stream of song. One would have thought such an atmosphere would have poisoned them, but both were plainly proof against it; and when at length the rival bird ceased and fluttered down upon the table, it was from sheer exhaustion of physical strength, and

lack of further power of endurance. Jenny, as usual, had won the day; and its owner, as he complimented the bird caressingly, averred, with a tremendous expletive, that he would have wrung its neck upon the spot had it been defeated.

Another similar match followed between birds of less note and less exalted pretensions; but, owing to a defect, or perhaps to an excellence, in my pectoral apparatus, I was so unpleasantly affected by the amount of tobacco-reek which had found its way into my lungs, as to be compelled to make a hasty exit. Consequently, I had not the privilege of seeing the celebrated character, or of witnessing the bestowal of honours upon the dogs of merit. Whether Pompey bore off the prize, which of the terriers got a medal, and which came off with only honourable mention, I am in no condition to satisfy the public. There was no illustrated catalogue of the exhibition, although it would have stood illustration remarkably well from the hands of some combined Hogarth and Landseer. Bets were rife upon the chances of the prize, and the 'favourite' was a black and tan spaniel about the size of a rabbit, with long broad ears, long silken hair, and no nose to speak of. This was a dog of fortune-had been pupped, to speak figuratively, with a golden spoon in its mouth, having been bred to order for a certain beautiful duchess, to whom, after having competed for, and probably won the first prize, it would be forwarded on the morrow, to be pillowed henceforth on silk plush, or fondled in the folds of lace or satin; to be dieted on fricassees and cream; to be attended, in case of an attack of the spleen, by a physician who keeps his carriage; and to be led forth in park or shrubbery every day for an airing, by a liveried page, impressed to melancholy by the awful responsibility of the charge.

Companions of man, dogs are subject, like him, to every imaginable variety of social position, and to all possible mutations of fortune. The difference between the Queen upon the throne and the veriest houseless outcast that cowers shiveringly beneath the blast of winter in the streets of London, is not greater than that which exists between the kicked, starved, mangled, worried, and skeleton mongrel that wears and whines out its miserable life in the oozy kennels of the city slums, and the Queen's favourite poodle, caressed by royalty, immortalised by Landseer, and housed in a palace. The parallel is capable of a much more extensive application; but I must not pursue it too far, lest I be betrayed into comparisons which might not be deemed complimentary to the reader, for whom, and for whose dog, I entertain the tenderest regard.

THE ART OF BEING QUIET. AN old writer-I think it is Jeremy Taylor-says: 'No person that is clamorous can be wise.' This is one of those sayings which everybody believes without reasoning about, because it accords with things already tried and proved by the great bulk of mankind. We are all disposed to assume that a man of few words thinks much; that one who is never in a bustle gets through twice as much work as another who is always hurried. And the disposition to believe this is not weakened by finding many exceptions to the rule. A silent fool who passes for a wise man until he begins to speak is not a perfect fool; on account of his quietness, that outward semblance of wisdom, he is less foolish than his talkative brother. And a wise man who has spoken largely-and there have been many such, from Confucius and Socrates down to Bacon and Goethe-is not reckoned any the less wise for having made some noise in the world. The silence of the fool and the eloquence of the wise cannot be adduced in argument against the utility of being quiet, nor can

The loud laugh which marks the vacant mind.

The art of being quiet can still lay just claim to the attentive consideration of sensible folks and people of an artistic or speculative turn of mind, and should have its claim allowed on fitting occasions. With your leave, good reader, I will take the present occasion to be one of those, and will offer you a few words on the subject.

It has struck me, that the art of being quiet, besides being one of the most useful arts, must be reckoned among the fine arts, since it ministers largely to our love of the beautiful. The very words quiet, repose, calmness, tranquillity, peace, are in themselves beautiful, and suggest either the essence or a very important component of all true beauty. Therefore, it will be well to consider the art of being quiet from an æsthetic as well as from a utilitarian point of view.

To begin with the utility of being quiet. All the world seems agreed that it is essential to their bien être physique; for all the world is ready to do, say, or give anything for a quiet life.' One of the first lessons taught to our children is the necessity of acquiring this art. 'Be quiet, child!' is an exhortation of as frequent recurrence in the British nursery and schoolroom as the famous Know thyself!' was in the ancient groves of Academe. But physiologists can testify that the lesson is by no means a profitable one to the child, and that it is inculcated mainly for the benefit of the grown-up world around, who dislike the noise which is a necessity of development to the young. So necessary is noise to the healthy development of children, that whenever we meet with a child who is remarkable for its quietness, we are apt to infer that it is in a morbid or diseased state; and the physician will generally pronounce the inference correct. In fact, the quiet life so much desired by adults is not natural or desirable during the years when existence goes on unconsciously. It is only when we begin to think about life, and how we should live, that the art of being quiet assumes its real value; to the irrational creature it is nothing, to the rational it is much. In the first place, it removes what Mr de Quincey, with his usual grand felicity of expression, calls the burden of that distraction which lurks in the infinite littleness of details.' It is this infinite littleness of details which takes the glory and the dignity from our common life, and which we who value that life for its own sake and for the sake of its great Giver must strive to make finite. Since unconscious life is not possible to the intellectual adult, as it is to the child-since he cannot go on living without a thought about the nature of his own being, its end and aim-it is good for him to cultivate a habit of repose, that he may think and feel like a man, putting away those childish things-the carelessness, the thoughtless joy, 'the tear forgot as soon as shed,' which, however beautiful, because appropriate, in childhood, are not beautiful, because not appropriate, in mature age. The art of being quiet is necessary to enable a man to possess his own soul in peace and integrity-to examine himself, to understand what gifts God has endowed him with, and to consider how he may best employ them in the business of the world. This is its universal utility. It is unwholesome activity which requires not repose and thoughtful quiet as its forerunner, and every man should secure some portion of each day for voluntary retirement and repose within himself.

But besides this conscious, and, as it were, active use of quiet, which is universal in its beneficial effects, there is a passive-though, to the adult, not unconscious -use of quiet, which belongs only to particular cases, and which is even of higher beneficial effect. I say, to the adult it is not unconscious, because this same passive use of quiet operates upon children of finer and nobler organisation than the average, and in their case it operates unconsciously. In both cases-in that of the unconscious child and that of the conscious man

is quiet within, and commands respect from others. This is attainable by minds of mediocre endowments: a man need not have a great genius to be serene and mentally quiet-quiet enough to examine his own powers, and keep them always ready for active service. This is doing one of the highest earthly duties, and in the performance of it a certain sort of greatness is attained-that useful sort of greatness implied by the wise man when he says: 'Greater is he that ruleth his own spirit, than he that taketh a city.'

the still, calm soul is laid bare before the face of nature, circumstances-may move, but cannot upset it; it and is affected by 'the spirit breathing from that face.' It does not study, nor scrutinise, nor seek to penetrate the mystery; it does not even feel that there is any burden in that mystery; it is simply quiet beneath the overarching influences, and purely recipient. De Quincey has this sort of mental quiet in his mindthe passive as opposed to the active quiet-when he cites Wordsworth's well-known verses in the following passage-It belongs to a profound experience of the relations subsisting between ourselves and nature, that not always are we called upon to seek; sometimes, and in childhood above all, we are sought.

Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum

Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking.'

And again

Nor less I deem that there are powers

Which of themselves our minds impress; And we can feed this mind of ours

In a wise passiveness.

The wisdom of such passiveness can never be doubted by those who have felt the impress of the invisible powers upon their own minds when in that state, or have had opportunities of observing similar effects on the minds of children. It is when a mind is thus wisely passive that it is open to revelations and to inspirations. This is the mental state of the poet and of the prophet in the exercise of their proper functions. This sort of quiet can be described much better than it can be taught; for although it certainly comes within the limits of the art of being quiet, it has a grace beyond the reach of art.' To give rules for its attainment, would savour of presumption in one who cannot pretend to be an adept; but, without presumption, I may indicate in what manner these rules may be discovered by those who wish to know them. In two ways may the art of being quiet-in this high passive sense-be attained: first, by natural instinct or genius; second, by habituating the mind to the practice of that lower, and, as it were, active art of being quiet, which it is incumbent on us all to acquire as a condition of moral health in this busy world, wherein the verb to do ranks so much higher than the verb to be. The way of instinct or genius cannot be taught. The other way can. We can all learn how to be quiet in that sense. To begin with externals. We must, in this respect, keep the body in subjection, avoiding all unnecessary motion. It is one step gained when we can sit still and think within ourselves, or listen to another. Another step is gained when we have learned to bridle the tongue-when we are silent, not only that we may hear the voice of another, but that we may hear the voices of our own heart and conscience. Then, indeed, silence is better than speech. We must be careful never to give utterance to half-thoughts or hasty opinions, but to wait in patient silence till we have matured them in our brains. A calm earnest manner when we are most actively employed: Ohne hast aber ohne Rast, as the German proverb says, is also another external characteristic of mental quietude. But the mental quietude itself, the art of being quiet, is a something which works beneath the surface. This art gives to ordinary men a power and influence which men, in other respects far above the ordinary, cannot attain without it. The amount of self-governance which it establishes is admirable. Thought, word, and deed are under control of the reasoning will; irregular and irrational impulses never carry away the man in spite of his reason; he is always master of himself that is, being self-possessed. Thence proceed 'selfreverence, self-knowledge, self-control.' The kingdom of the mind is kept in order and peace, so that external disturbances-what is called the tyranny of

Before say a few words about the beauty of being quiet, or, as it was called above, the aesthetical view of the subject, I cannot refrain from setting before my readers a passage from a new book by an old favourite of the book-loving public; for Leigh Hunt is an old and ever-new favourite with all persons of refined and cultivated literary taste; the sorrows of life have chastened, matured, strengthened and beautified his character, so that his genius sends forth as bright a light in old age as ever it sent in youth. Hear what he now says: 'It is good to prepare the thoughts in gentleness and silence for the consideration of duty. Silence as well as gentleness would seem beloved of God. For to the human sense, and like the mighty manifestation of a serene lesson, the skies and the great spaces between the stars are silent. Silent, too, for the most part, is earth; save where gentle sounds vary the quiet of the country, and the fluctuating solitudes of the waters. Folly and passion are rebuked before it: peace loves it, and hearts are drawn together by it, conscious of one service and of one duty of sympathy. Violence is partial and transitory; gentleness alone is universal and ever sure. It was said of old, under a partial law, and with a limited intention, but with a spirit beyond the intention, which emanated from the God-given wisdom in the heart, that there came a wind that rent the mountains, and brake the rocks in pieces, before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire, a still, small voice. Such is the God-given voice of conscience in the heart; most potent when most gentle, breaking before it the difficulties of worldly trouble, and inspiring us with a calm determination.'*

If such be the moral effects of silence and quiet, we may be sure that the æsthetic effects will correspond, for goodness and beauty are radically the same. In all the great works of art which remain to us from ancient times, and which are ensamples to modern artists, a perfect calmness and repose is noticeable. In all beautiful objects of our own time, whether among living creatures or in the productions of man's hand, there is a sentiment of quietness and serenity. Nothing disturbed, confused, or hurried, affects us with a sense of beauty; whereas anything that produces a sense of stillness and repose, even though it may lack every other element of beauty, is often said to be beautiful, and does the work of a beautiful thing, which is to excite love or admiration in our minds. It is so especially with persons and with places. A person whose face and manner are full of that composure and gentle quietude which can emanate only from a peaceful and well-regulated mind, may not have a good feature nor a well-proportioned limb, and yet will attract others as if he or she were beautiful. They will be gladdened by the approach of such a one, love to be near him, to be under the influence of that beautiful or beauty-making power;' and feel all their gentlest and best feelings excited by his presence. More than all, they themselves will be quieted by being near him, for repose of character, and the loveliness attendant on it, are contagious. So it is with a quiet place-a place

The Religion of the Heart. By Leigh Hunt. John Chapman: Strand.

CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL.

where order and fitness of details produce a unity of effect. This unity of aspect in a landscape or a room, is what is called harmony in the language of art; it is what in common language may be called repose or quiet, and is the thing which we all seek-without knowing it, for the most part-when we gaze upon a natural landA quiet comfortable scape, or look round us in a room. room is full of beauty, and everybody loves it; a quiet beautiful landscape is full of the comfort which all beauty brings to the refined mind. There are also refined minds which, having attained in perfection the art of quiet, reflect their own harmony upon the landscape they look on, or the room in which they are; they carry about with them repose and quiet, as the joyous minds carry with them sunshine and gladness. In this world, so full of love and sorrow, the loving cannot always be glad, nor desire to be glad; but always they are glad to be quiet. Quietude is beautiful and good: let us strive to cultivate it in our hearts, that it may give us leisure and opportunity for raising and purifying our souls, which is the highest duty we have set before us on earth. Far be from our souls all noise and tumult, violence and confusion, even about good things; and let us learn to compose our hearts, that we may commune with high things, and heed as little as may be the madding crowd's ignoble strife,' except to convert it into the 'peace which passeth all understanding.'

ALARM OF A FRENCH INVASION. THERE are certain well-known plagues of domestic life in the shape of beetles and cockroaches that take up their quarters wherever human beings congregate; and not even students of natural history are willing to fraternise with them for any length of time. London has its full share of these intruders, and others besides, among which is the Myrmica domestica-small yellow ant, now found in so many houses as to occasion serious annoyance. At a recent meeting of the Entomological Society, Mr Spence stated, that had proper precautions been taken when this ant was first introduced, its spread might have been prevented, and the infant colony extirpated. At the same time, he called attention to a danger threatened from another quarternamely, an invasion from Rochelle, not of Frenchmen, but of an army of the Termes lucifugus. These insects have long been established in that town, and we are liable any day to have them brought over in trading vessels to our own ports in the west of England, 'where,' as Mr Spence observes, they would find a temperature probably as well suited to their propagation as at Rochelle.' If such should be the case, there is no foreseeing where the evil would stop: the whole country might be overrun, as with the aquatic plant whose extraordinary spread we noticed a few months ago.

We have all read of the ravages which ants and termites commit in tropical countries, of their extensive Our unforsettlements, and surprising migrations. tunate colony of Port Essington was one of their favourite haunts; and so cleverly did they pursue the work of destruction inside the timber of the colonists' houses, that the buildings fell one after another without moment's warning. We now find them making similar havoc in Europe.

a

Termites are often confounded with ants, which is The Termes a mistake, for they are distinct races. lucifugus, which is very small and white, was discovered first at Bordeaux by Latreille, and since his day, has been found at some half-dozen other places in the western departments of France, and more recently at Rochelle. Naturalists say that termites are more to be feared than the real ant; and so it proved at Saintes, Rochefort, &c., where roofs and floors fell without the least notice, and whole houses were hollowed out to

mere shells, and had to be abandoned or rebuilt. As
their name indicates, these petty marauders shun the
light, and never give any outward sign of the mischief
they are perpetrating-a fact which renders them the
more to be dreaded.

At Rochelle, they have not yet overrun the whole town, but have two thriving settlements from which they may, when least expected, send out scouts to find new quarters for their swarms of sappers and miners. These settlements are at opposite extremities of the town, separated by the port and docks-one being the arsenal, the other the prefecture. At the former, the ground-floors only are infested, the upper apartments having hitherto been preserved by a constant and rigid system of inspection. But at the prefecture, and some of the adjoining houses, the whole of the wood-work in every story is pierced. Had it not been for a canal which connects the town-ditch with the harbour, they would probably have spread themselves further in this neighbourhood; but, to the inhabitants, the possibility of their getting across is a continual cause of apprehension. The prefecture is a mansion which two wealthy shipowners built for their own residence about seventy years ago. They imported largely from San Domingo, and it is believed that the termites were introduced with bales of goods from that colony, and that a few having found suitable quarters in the building, their propagation inevitably followed. The arsenal appears to have become infested through false economy, for when it was built, some beams were used in which it was well known that termites had already penetrated.

Many attempts have been made to get rid of these destructive Neuroptera, but hitherto without success; though one case is recorded of a garden having been freed by soaking it with hot soap-suds. At the beginning of 1853, M. Quatrefages of the French Academy of Sciences was sent to Rochelle, to investigate the growing evil on the spot, and devise if possible a remedy. A few years ago, the principal He describes the ravages at the prefecture as being of the most serious nature. beam of one of the rooms broke in two, and fell during the night, leaving the inmates in a state of painful suspense as to which part of the edifice would go next. By and by, a great portion of the departmental archives was found to be destroyed; the bundles of papers Since that time, appeared to be perfectly sound on the outside, but the whole of the inside was devoured. the official documents have been kept in zinc boxes. Painted columns which shewed no signs of injury, have, on examination, proved to be nothing but a fragile honeycomb surrounded by a shell of paint. One day, a clerk happening to stumble in going up stairs, clapped his hand suddenly against a massive and seemingly solid oak joist to save himself, when to his surprise the hand went in up to the wrist. The interior was nothing but a collection of empty cells abandoned by the termites.

In the garden, permanent hardy plants were attacked as well as annuals: a poplar was eaten away up to the branches, and a dahlia was pulled up with its stem completely filled with the mischievous insects, and the tubers excavated. All the stakes used for supporting plants were perforated both above and below the surface of the soil; and if a piece of board was attached to the wood-work of any of the doors or lintels, it was furrowed in all directions in less than twenty-four hours.

The habit of the termites is to establish a nest or colony at some central point, and to bore galleries leading from it in all directions. To find out this central point is one difficulty in the way of extirpation; the smallness of the creatures themselves is another. M. Quatrefages remembering that rats had been driven from their holes by forcing in sulphuretted hydrogen, tried a number of experiments with this gas and with chlorine on the termites enclosed in glass tubes, where the effects could be noted. He found chlorine to be the more fatal: it killed the insects in

five-sixths of a second. Besides, it is less costly, more easily prepared, and less irritating to the lungs of those who have to apply it, than sulphuretted hydrogen. Its greater specific gravity, too, insures its penetrating the galleries, and it will kill even when largely mixed with atmospheric air. The method he recommends is, to fit an apparatus as near to all the central nests as possible, and then, by a moderate long-continued pressure, to force the gas into the galleries. If this be done at the season when the females are about to lay their eggs, the destruction will be the more complete.

It is obvious that this mode of destroying so dangerous a pest can only be really effectual while the termites are confined to narrow and well-ascertained limits. When spread abroad, it would be impossible. Watchfulness ought to be exercised in our seaports against the entrance of so obnoxious an intruder.

THE LARGE HOTEL QUESTION. THAT most indefatigable of all the servants of the British public; that functionary who never sleeps, never stops to eat or drink, never tires, never dies; that phenomenon who knows everybody and everything, who has been everywhere, and seems to be everywhere at once; who has attributed to him the wisdom of knowing how to do the right thing at the right time in the right place; who keeps the earth's axis well oiled, that the world may roll on without too much friction; who knows what everybody thinks, and, moreover, what everybody ought to think; who can tell the thinkers how to do what they think, and fights everybody's battles against those who would obstruct the thinkers and doers; who is expected to answer everybody's questions, and to solve everybody's difficulties-of course we speak of the editor of the Times-this invisible personage, among the many hard tasks which have been imposed upon him, has been called upon to reform our hotels and hotel-systems. 'Biffin' and 'Thirstysoul' appealed to him day after day, to assist them in an onslaught on the hotels. He did so, and there is silently springing up proofs here and there that the battle will not have been fought in vain. It is true that no very startling manifestations have become visible-nothing to fright the isle from its propriety: but the work is going on nevertheless. There are three directions in which the reform is shewing itself -the great railway companies are beginning to advertise for tenders in respect to the building of hotels, in which 'second-class' accommodation is to be afforded; there is a 'Hotel Company' brewing, by which great things are promised; and many of the old hotels and inns, terrified at all this stir and botheration,' are voluntarily making sundry reforms, in which a public drawing-room or coffee-room for ladies is included.

The causes which have led to the present unsatisfactory state of our hotels are many. The hotel-keepers are answerable for only some of them, not all. In the days of posting, there was a clearly marked line of division between the rich and the poor, the genteel and the common. The persons who hired a post-chaise lived in corresponding style on the road, and the posting-inns provided a luxurious and costly accommodation; while all those whose means did not permit them to travel post, but who had to avail themselves of other modes of conveyances, put up as a matter of course at houses of much humbler character. When the days of staging began to supersede the days of posting, the two different grades became more mixed up; the 'insides' and the 'outsides' stopped at the same inn, because the coach changed horses there, and the opportunity of making a difference in charge became much lessened; when railway-days began to supersede stagingdays, the confusion of rank became greater and greater; and the British public have never yet settled down into gradations in respect to railway-hotel accommodations.

Besides these three causes-the posting, the staging, and the railway systems-there are other three which have tended to bring about the present anomalous state of our hotels. One is the licensing-system, which, by limiting the number of houses opened for such accommodation, cramps the healthy action of open competition. A second is, the practice which railway companies have followed of building costly hotels, letting them at high rental, and allowing the renters to charge what they please. A third is-and the sooner we acknowledge it the better-that we are an odd sort of people at hotels; our insular habits not adapting us so completely as our continental and American friends to the social usages of hotel-life.

Without dwelling further on these causes, we wish to devote a few paragraphs to a notice of what is doing in various quarters, to mark the steps of progress towards something which may be better by and by. It may be as well here to mention, that if the reader has the second series of the Journal at hand, he will find two detailed notices of the continental hotel-system in the years 1846 and 1847 (vol. vi. p. 190; vol. viii. p. 153). It is the marvellous hotel-system of America that we wish here more particularly to mention.

In the Illustrated News, a few months ago, was given an engraving of an American hotel, so stupendous that an Englishman has some difficulty in believing that such a structure can be a hotel. It is the Mount Vernon Hotel, at Cape May, in New Jersey. This Cape May is not a large city, nor the suburb of a large city: it is a quiet watering-place, and the hotel has been recently built for the accommodation of pleasure visitors. Herein we observe at once a contrast to English customs: our towns-people, when they take an autumnal trip to Gravesend, Margate, Brighton, Weymouth, and suchlike places, more frequently look out for lodgings in private houses, than venture upon the expensiveness of hotel-accommodation; but the Americans view the matter differently-they put up at a hotel, and transfer all care and responsibility to the hotel-keeper. This Mount Vernon Hotel exceeds in size anything we can even dream of as a hotel in England. It consists of a main front or façade four stories in height, by more than 300 feet in length, and two wings no less than 500 feet in length. The front and wings form three sides of a square laid out with shrubs, walks, terraces, and fountains. The fourth side of the quadrangle is open to the sea, between which and the hotel is a smooth beach. In the centre, and at the corners of the front and of each wing, are towers higher than the rest of the building. Balconies and verandas are continued round the whole extent of the building at each story. It is said-and the figures in other respects seem to bear out the assertion-that there is nearly a mile and a half of such balconies and verandas. The general style of architecture is something like that of the new front to Buckingham Palace, with a certain Oriental character, due to the balconies and verandas. The dining-saloons, ladies' drawing-rooms, and general drawing-rooms, are of most sumptuous character. The number of bedrooms mentioned, is so extravagant that we think there must be some mistake; and in order that we may not perpetuate the mistake, if mistake it be, we will consent to regard the number of rooms as an unknown quantity.'

The system observed is very different from that which is usually acted on in England. Instead of being left in a state of vague terror at the possible amount of his bill, each visitor is said to be charged two dollars and a half—about half a guinea-per day for bed and board. Wine and washing are extras,' the washing being so charged as to include payment for servants. Notwithstanding all that has been said about American hotels, however, it appears that at this crack establishment, as in England, a guest finds himself almost compelled to fee the servants directly,

« PředchozíPokračovat »