But the most exclusive and aristocratic of all was the “Royal,” afterwards known as the “Old Royal.” This was the house mentioned in the “Pickwick Papers,” where the waiter, having at last got an order for something, “imperceptibly melted away.” It stood in Temple Row, and long arrogated to itself, before ever the title of “Royal” came into use, the name of “The Hotel.” Other hotels there were, but this proud house professed ignorance of them. It was originally built, with its Assembly Rooms, in 1772, and set forth, as a special attraction to its patrons, the statement that no coaches ever approached to disturb the holy quiet of Temple Row. It was about 1825 that something of this seclusion was sloughed off, and the business transferred to the old Portugal House in New Street, where, with two additional wings, it blossomed forth as the “New Royal.” Its old supremacy now began to be challenged by the newly established “Stork,” in Old Square, then a quiet and dignified retreat, very different from the same place to-day, with its flashing shops, electric lights, and tramways; nothing now old about it, excepting its name. The “Stork,” of course, suffered something at the hands and pens of witlings, just as did the “Pelican” at Speenhamland, on the Bath Road! and to make humorous reference to its “long bill” was the custom, whether the charges were high or moderate. [Illustration: THE “OLD ROYAL.”] But the days of the old hotels, exclusive or otherwise, were in sight when the railway came. Another sort replaced them, and, although the kind in its turn has gone out of favour, examples may yet be found. Who does not know the typical hotel of, say, the Fifties and the Sixties, that abominably draughty type of building, all cold would-be magnificence and interminable flights of stairs, with lofty rooms, apparently built for a Titanic race fifteen feet in height, and, by consequence, never warm, and never with an air of being fully furnished. That such as these should ever have replaced the cosy old houses can only be explained on the score of fashion, for there are illogical and senseless fashions in architecture, as in everything else. The railway era commenced in Birmingham with the opening of the Grand Junction and the London and Birmingham Railways in 1837 and 1838. The early railway engines and carriages, and, indeed, everything connected with those days of the rail, are curious nowadays, and not the least amusing are the comments then made on travelling by steam. “A railway conveyance,” said one, writing in favour of the coaches, “is a locomotive prison, and, the novelty of it having subsided, we shall seldom hear of a gentleman condescending to assume this hasty mode of transit.” That was a very bad shot at prophecy, but it was followed by a perfect howler in the way of error. “It has already been proved,” says this person, “that railways are not calculated to carry heavy goods.”