(_By our Literary Expert._)
No one will be surprised to hear that the Christian name of Mr.
BRADSHAW was George. Indeed, it is difficult to think what other name
a man of his calibre could have had. But many people will be surprised
to hear that Mr. BRADSHAW is no longer alive. Whatever one thinks
of his work one is inclined to think of him as a living personality,
working laboriously at some terminus--probably at the Charing Cross
Hotel. But it is not so. He died, in fact, in 1853. His first book--or
rather the first edition of his book[1] was published in 1839; yet,
unlike the author, it still lives. He is, in fact, the supreme example
of the posthumous serial writer. I have no information about Mr.
DEBRETT and Mr. BURKE, but the style and substance of their work are
relatively so flimsy that one is justified, I think, in neglecting
them. In any case their public is a limited one. So, of course, is Mr.
BRADSHAW'S; but it is better than theirs. Mr. DEBRETT'S book we read
idly in an idle hour; when we read Mr. BRADSHAW'S it is because we
feel that we simply must; and that perhaps is the surest test of
genius.
It is no wonder that in some circles Mr. BRADSHAW holds a position
comparable only to the position of HOMER. I once knew an elderly
clergyman who knew the whole of Mr. BRADSHAW'S book by heart. He could
tell you without hesitation the time of any train from anywhere to
anywhere else. He looked forward each month to the new number, as
other people look forward to the new numbers of magazines. When it
came he skimmed eagerly through its pages and noted with a fierce
excitement that they had taken off the 5.30 from Larne Harbour, or
that the 7.30 from Galashiels was stopping that month at Shankend. He
knew all the connections; he knew all the restaurant trains; and, if
you mentioned the 6.15 to Little Buxton, he could tell you offhand
whether it was a Saturdays Only or a Saturdays Excepted.
This is the exact truth, and I gathered that he was not unique. It
seems that there is a Bradshaw cult; there may even be a Bradshaw
club, where they meet at intervals for Bradshaw dinners, after which
a paper is read on "Changes I have made, with some Observations on
Salisbury." I suppose some of them have first editions, and talk about
them very proudly; and they have hot academic discussions on the best
way to get from Barnham Junction to Cardiff without going through
Bristol. Then they drink the toast of "The Master" and go home in
omnibuses. My friend was a schoolmaster and took a small class of boys
in Bradshaw; he said they knew as much about it as he did. I call that
corrupting the young.
But apart from this little band of admirers I am afraid that the book
does suffer from neglect. Who is there, for example, who has read
the "Directions" on page 1, where we are actually shown the method
of reading tentatively suggested by the author himself? The ordinary
reader, coming across a certain kind of thin line, lightly dismisses
it as a misprint or a restaurant car on Fridays. If he had read the
Preface he would know that it meant a SHUNT. He would know that a
SHUNT means that passengers are enabled to continue their journey by
changing into the next train. Whether he would know what that means I
do not know. The best authorities suppose it to be a poetical way of
saying that you have to change--what is called an euphemism.
No, you must not neglect the Preface; and you must not neglect the
Appendix on Hotels. As sometimes happens in works of a philanthropic
character, Mr. BRADSHAW'S Appendix has a human charm that is lacking
in his treatment of his principal theme, the arrival and departure
of trains. To the careful student it reveals also a high degree
of organisation among his collaborators, the hotel-managers. It is
obvious, for example, that at Bournemouth there must be at least one
hotel which has the finest situation on the South coast. Indeed
one would expect to find that there was more than one. But no;
Bournemouth, exceptionally fortunate in having at once the most select
hotel on the South coast, the largest and best-appointed hotel on the
South coast and the largest and most up-to-date hotel on the South
coast, has positively only one which has the finest position on
the South coast. Indeed, there is only one of these in the whole of
England, though there are two which have the finest position on the
East coast.
How is it, we wonder, that with so much variation on a single theme
such artistic restraint is achieved? It is clear, I think, that before
they send in their manuscripts the hotel-managers must meet somewhere
and agree together the exact terms of their contributions to the book.
"The George" agrees that for the coming year "The Crown" shall have
the "finest cuisine in England," provided "The George" may have "the
most charming situation imaginable," and so on. I should like to be at
one of those meetings.
This is the only theory which accounts for the curious phrases we
find so frequently in the text:--"_Acknowledged_ to be the finest";
"_Admittedly_ in the best position." Who is it that acknowledges or
admits these things? It must be the other managers at these annual
meetings. Yes, the restraint of the collaborators is wonderful, and in
one point only has it broken down. There are no fewer than seventeen
hotels with an Unrivalled Situation, and two of these are at
Harrogate. For a small place like the British Isles it seems to me
that this is too many.
For the rest, what imagery, what exaltation we find in this Appendix!
Dazed with imagined beauty we pass from one splendid haunt to another.
One of them has _three_ golf-courses of its own; several are _replete_
with every comfort (and is not "replete" the perfect epithet?). Here
is a seductive one "on the sea-edge," and another whose principal
glory is its sanitary certificate. Another stands on the spot where
TENNYSON received his inspiration for the _Idylls of the King_, and
leaves it at that. In such a spot even "cuisine" is negligible.
On the whole, from a literary point of view, the hydros come out
better than the mere hotels. But of course they have unequalled
advantages. With such material as Dowsing Radiant Heat, D'Arsonval
High Frequency and Fango Mud Treatment almost any writer could be
sensational. What is High Frequency, I wonder? It is clear, at any
rate, that it would be madness to have a hydro without it.
Well, I have selected my hotel--on purely literary grounds. Or rather
I have selected two. One is the place where they have the Famous
Whirlpool Baths. I shall go there at once.
The manager of the other is a great artist; alone among the
collaborators he understands simplicity. His contribution occupies
a whole page; but there is practically nothing in it, nothing about
cuisine or sanitation, or elegance or comfort. Only, in the middle, he
writes quite simply THE MOST PERFECT HOTEL IN THE WORLD.