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