In the last ten years I have seen a good deal of English inns in many
parts of the country, and it astonishes me to find how bad they are. Only
once or twice have I chanced upon an inn (or, if you like, hotel) where I
enjoyed any sort of comfort. More often than not, even the beds are
unsatisfactory--either pretentiously huge and choked with drapery, or
hard and thinly accoutred. Furnishing is uniformly hideous, and there is
either no attempt at ornament (the safest thing) or a villainous taste
thrusts itself upon one at every turn. The meals, in general, are coarse
and poor in quality, and served with gross slovenliness.

I have often heard it said that the touring cyclist has caused the
revival of wayside inns. It may be so, but the touring cyclist seems to
be very easily satisfied. Unless we are greatly deceived by the old
writers, an English inn used to be a delightful resort, abounding in
comfort, and supplied with the best of food; a place, too, where one was
sure of welcome at once hearty and courteous. The inns of to-day, in
country towns and villages, are not in that good old sense inns at all;
they are merely public-houses. The landlord's chief interest is the sale
of liquor. Under his roof you may, if you choose, eat and sleep, but
what you are expected to do is to drink. Yet, even for drinking, there
is no decent accommodation. You will find what is called a bar-parlour,
a stuffy and dirty room, with crazy chairs, where only the sodden dram-
gulper could imagine himself at ease. Should you wish to write a letter,
only the worst pen and the vilest ink is forthcoming; this, even in the
"commercial room" of many an inn which seems to depend upon the custom of
travelling tradesmen. Indeed, this whole business of innkeeping is
incredibly mismanaged. Most of all does the common ineptitude or
brutality enrage one when it has possession of an old and picturesque
house, such as reminds you of the best tradition, a house which might be
made as comfortable as house can be, a place of rest and mirth.