Heigho! we, or they, have changed all that. The poet who found his "warmest welcome in an inn" was, naturally enough, writing of his own time. I don't like fault-finding, but must needs declare that the "warmest" part of an inn welcome to be found nowadays is the bill. As long as you pay it (or have plenty of luggage to leave behind in default), and make yourself agreeable to the fair and haughty bookkeeper (if it's a "she") who allots you your bedroom, and bullies the page-boy, nobody in the modern inn cares particularly what becomes of you. You lose your individuality, and become "Number 325." Instead of welcome, distrust lurks, large, on the very threshold. "_No Cheques Accepted_" is frequently the first announcement to catch the eye of the incoming guest; and although you cannot help admiring the marble pillars, the oak carving, the gilding, the mirrors, and the electric light, an uncomfortable feeling comes over you at meal times, to the effect that the cost of the decorations, or much of it, is taken out of the food. "Waiter," you ask, as soon as your eyes and ears get accustomed to the incessant bustle of the coffee-room, and your nostrils to the savour of last night's soup, "what can I have for breakfast?" "What would you like, sir?" "I should like a grilled sole, to begin with." "Very sorry, sir, soles is hoff--get you a nice chop or steak." "Can't manage either so early in the day. Got any whitings?" "Afraid we're out of whitings, sir, but I'll see." Eventually, after suggesting sundry delicacies, all of which are either "hoff," or unknown to the waiter, you settle down to the consumption of two fried and shrivelled shop eggs, on an island of Chicago ham, floating in an Ægean Sea of grease and hot water; whilst a half quartern loaf, a cruet-stand the size of a cathedral, a rackful of toast of the "Zebra" brand, and about two gallons of (alleged) coffee, are dumped down in succession in front of you. There are, of course, some hostelries where they "do" you better than this, but my experience of hotel breakfasts at this end of the nineteenth century has not been encouraging, either to appetite or temper; and I do vow and protest that the above picture is not too highly coloured.