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.

At a public-house you expect public-house manners, and nothing better will meet you at most of the so-called inns or hotels.  It surprises me to think in how few instances I have found even the pretence of civility.  As a rule, the landlord and landlady are either contemptuously superior or boorishly familiar; the waiters and chambermaids do their work with an indifference which only softens to a condescending interest at the moment of your departure, when, if the tip be thought insufficient, a sneer or a muttered insult speeds you on your way.  One inn I remember, where, having to go in and out two or three times in a morning, I always found the front door blocked by the portly forms of two women, the landlady and the barmaid, who stood there chatting and surveying the street.  Coming from within the house, I had to call out a request for passage; it was granted with all deliberation, and with not a syllable of apology.  This was the best “hotel” in a Sussex market town.

And the food.  Here, beyond doubt, there is grave degeneracy.  It is impossible to suppose that the old travellers by coach were contented with entertainment such as one gets nowadays at the table of a country hotel.  The cooking is wont to be wretched; the quality of the meat and vegetables worse than mediocre.  What!  Shall one ask in vain at an English inn for an honest chop or steak?  Again and again has my appetite been frustrated with an offer of mere sinew and scrag.  At a hotel where the charge for lunch was five shillings, I have been sickened