somewhat vague, and seem to point out a state of things a little
strange. Of course, we all know what a guest is; but we associate
that term more with the friendly interchange of courtesy than with
the relation between innkeeper and guest in modern times. The usage
is derived from a condition of things that has to a great extent
disappeared—when the means of communication between one part of the
country and another were less rapid and more limited than now. The
roads also were far from good; indeed, about the reign of Queen
Elizabeth they were so bad that there were only a few coaches existing;
and everything had to be done by means of packhorses and light gigs. To
many places, especially in Cumberland, Westmorland, North Lancashire,
Wales, and many of the western counties, there were no roads, only a
beaten path over a huge lonely common, often a long way above the level
of the sea, and extending for many hours’ journey. To get to Cumberland
out of Westmorland was practically almost impossible, except with
the aid of a guide who knew the various passes and the many dangers
that lay in the route, including those from the footpad and mounted
highwayman. If a traveller visited these lonely places, he would get
rest and refreshment at the village inn; and if he came on horseback,
his horse was fed and well taken care of.
In those remote times, therefore, the business of an innkeeper was an
important accessory to every country village. His house was usually
situated on the high-road, and was called by a variety of names, quaint
and funny; and sometimes his sign bore the telling legend, which he did
well to follow—that he
Selleth goode ale and beer,
And giveth to all righte goode cheer.
Thus the duty of an innkeeper came to be recognised as one which was
most important to the state, one which it was the bounden duty of
judges of the high courts to look well after.
It is long since the duty of an innkeeper to his guest or traveller
was regulated by the common law of the land, while the abuses into
which he is liable to fall, have also been made the subject of statute
law regulation. The whole law on this subject in England and Scotland
is derived from the famous Edict of the Roman prætor, beginning with
the words: ‘_Nautæ caupones_.’ Here is a brief outline of what the
innkeeper has to do, and what he has to guard against. Before he is
allowed to have a license, his house must be proved to be substantial,
and to have sufficient accommodation for man and beast. In fact,
anything that a traveller may need or reasonably demand, he should and
must supply him with. If the innkeeper refuses without any good or
justifiable reason, he is liable to be sued for any damages that the
traveller may think due to him for such refusal, and for the annoyance
and inconvenience caused thereby. The innkeeper is compelled to let
into his house at any time of the night any person who is a _bonâ fide_
traveller; immediately to supply him with refreshments, according to
his needs, and to put up his horse and vehicle. When he takes the
traveller into his house, the latter immediately becomes his guest,
and the innkeeper himself is transformed into ‘mine host.’ Here begins
the proper employment of the innkeeper. He takes care of his guest’s
luggage, houses his carriage, feeds his horse, and does everything for
the care and safety of the accompaniments of his guest. If the latter
has servants, he puts them up, sees to their welfare and ease, and
indeed becomes one of the most hospitable of men. Of course he knows he
will be paid for his trouble—perhaps well paid—and this urges him to
make everybody as comfortable as possible. It will be kept in view that
a coffee-house, a boarding-house, or a lodging-house, is not an inn.
Let us suppose that some of the property of the guest is stolen; some
village rogue has noticed the wealth of the traveller or the abundance
of luggage, and has secretly—perhaps during the night—entered the
house of the innkeeper and made off with something belonging to the
traveller. Or, again, the inn might be set on fire, and except the
inmates who would escape, everything within it would be destroyed and
consumed. Who, then, is responsible for the traveller’s goods? If this
had occurred in a friend’s house, or anywhere else, of course the owner
would be the loser; but it happened in the house of an innkeeper,
amenable to certain precedents of our common law, and he is liable
to the full extent of the loss. But in Scotland, a loss by fire is
regarded as _damnum fatale_, and the innkeeper is not liable unless a
case of fire-raising by the servant of the inn is proved.
You may say this seems hard, and we answer it does; but still it is
an exceptional case. At the same time, it shows what an innkeeper is
bound to do, and gives additional security to the goods of a person,
seeking the assistance of another unknown to him. The case is different
from a person taking upon himself the custody of goods for a premium
or charge according to the value of the goods so left with him; for it
is not necessary that the innkeeper should even know that his guest
had any property with him; and for what might appear to be the absurd
carelessness of the owner, he is in many cases responsible.
But perhaps it will be better to give a few of the cases which have
occurred on this subject, as proving definitely this peculiar feature
of our law. We will first take a case which was tried at the Lancaster
assizes in 1793, in which it appeared that a merchant called Bennet was
accustomed to send his servant with goods to the market at Manchester.
At the time in question, this man had bought certain goods, but had
not been able to dispose of them. He consequently endeavoured to find
a place where he could leave them until the next market-day. He went
to an inn, and there asked the wife of the innkeeper—whose name was
Mellor—if he might leave them there; but she replied that she could
not tell, for they were full of parcels. The servant then sat down,
put behind his chair the parcels of goods he had brought, and had some
drink. After sitting a little while, he got up, and found that the
parcels were missing. Bennet, the master of the servant and owner of
the goods, then sued the innkeeper for their value, and obtained a
verdict in his favour.
This case certainly gives the idea that the servant was very careless
in allowing his goods to be stolen just behind him; but the matter
was well argued out on a rule for a new trial of the cause, which
was discharged, the judges holding that the man had immediately upon
his entry and asking for something to drink become a guest; and the
innkeeper was responsible for the care of the goods brought with him
into the house, even though his wife had refused to take care of them
until the next market-day, for that was a separate transaction.
But let us cite another case, in which a verdict was given for the
innkeeper, it being proved that there were suspicious circumstances,
which ought to have been guarded against by the owner of the goods sued
for. Some seventy years ago, a Birmingham factor in the course of his
business stopped at an inn in Oxford, having with him three boxes of
valuable goods, chiefly jewellery. As he desired to show his wares to
customers, he asked for a private room, which was provided him. The
landlady also gave him the key to the room, so that he might lock the
door when he went out. The boxes were removed into this room; and a
customer calling, the factor opened his boxes and displayed his goods.
Several purchases were made. During this time, the door of the room was
twice opened; a stranger looked in, begged pardon, and immediately
withdrew. The door was then bolted, to prevent further interruption.
After they had completed their business, the customer left, and the
factor packed up his goods, but did not lock the door. What was
stranger still, he said afterwards that he did not know whether he had
shut it or left it open. The door also opened into a gateway which led
to the street, and on the outside of this door there was found a key.
The result of this carelessness was that two of the boxes with their
contents were stolen. The factor then endeavoured to recover their
value from the innkeeper, but failed. The matter was brought before
the superior courts, the judges of which, although they held that the
giving of the key to the factor was not sufficient of itself to absolve
the innkeeper from his liability, yet they decided he could not be held
responsible, after the gross carelessness shown by the plaintiff.
Another case happened at Brighton in 1830, in which a gentleman named
Kent sued to recover the value of a reticule and a number of bank-notes
which were in it at the time it was stolen. The plaintiff, his wife,
and a young lady called Miss Stratford, took a sitting-room and two
bedrooms at an hotel in Brighton, so situated that when the door of
the sitting-room was open, a person could see the entrances into both
bedrooms. Mrs Kent, shortly after they had taken possession, went into
one of the bedrooms, laid the reticule on the bed, and afterwards
returned into the sitting-room, leaving the door open. After she had
been there for about five minutes, she sent Miss Stratford for the
reticule; but it was not to be found. Here the jury had no difficulty
in finding a verdict for the plaintiff; the only question being,
whether money came within the scope of the writ, in the same way
as goods undoubtedly did. It being decided in the affirmative, the
plaintiff succeeded.
There is no doubt that the liability of the innkeeper is excluded by
the contributory negligence of the guest; but the innkeeper must show
not only that the guest did not show the ordinary care that might be
expected from a prudent man, but also that the loss would not have
happened if such care had been shown. But as the guest is entitled to
rely on the common-law obligation of the innkeeper, these cases of
contributory negligence seldom arise, except where it may be inferred,
from the acts or words of the parties, that the innkeeper’s liability
has been qualified or superseded, or where the guest is put on his
guard by suspicious circumstances. The usual notice on a bedroom wall
about locking the door will not protect the innkeeper, unless the guest
actually read it and made no objection. The only other case in which an
innkeeper is not liable is that of _damnum fatale_, as where the goods
are destroyed by a tempest.
Let us take three other cases, which will show a little diversity, but
will further explain our subject. A man came to an inn with a horse,
and left it under the innkeeper’s care to be fed. The latter put the
horse into a field, whence it was stolen; and for this the innkeeper
was held to be liable. In the same way, a gentleman, whilst taking
refreshments within the house, left his carriage in the care of the
hostler, who placed it, as was his custom, in the road; and it was
stolen. The innkeeper was held to be responsible.
The peculiarity of these cases is not only in the fact that the place
whence the horse and carriage were severally stolen was not in the
inn, but also in the circumstance that they were put in a certain
place without the sanction or knowledge of the owner. In a similar
case, however, in which the owner had asked that the horse should be
put out to pasture beyond the precincts of the inn, the innkeeper was
exonerated from all liability in respect of its loss.
We think we have shown by these cases that the responsibility of an
innkeeper is by no means a light one, and that it may be taken as a
fact, that in ordinary and unexceptional cases, he is liable for the
goods of his guest. Here we may add in parenthesis, that he is _not_
liable for the person of his guest beyond his own actions; that is,
if the guest is assaulted or in any way maltreated on his premises,
the innkeeper is not liable beyond what he may himself personally have
contributed to such maltreatment. There are, however, many points
which may be, and have been, raised, according to the particular
circumstances of the case, as where there is attached to the inn an
ordinary refreshment bar, and the owner of the goods only makes use of
that part of the house; in which case he cannot recover. Again, the
innkeeper is only responsible for what happens in his own house—with
the exceptions we have before noticed—and by his default, or by that
of his servants. He is protected, if the theft is committed by the
servants or companions of the traveller. If his house is full, but a
person says he will shift for himself among the guests, then he is
not responsible for anything that is lost; neither is he, unless the
relation of landlord and guest is established.
On this latter point, we will give one more case, which was tried at
the last summer assizes at Carlisle. The plaintiff was a traveller for
a firm of wine-merchants, and in the course of his journeys he alighted
from the train at Carlisle station, to which is connected the _County
Hotel_. He at once intrusted his luggage to the hotel porter, with the
intention of staying until the next day and sleeping in the hotel.
He went up the covered passage into the hotel; but there received a
telegram, which he considered necessitated his going to Manchester
that day. Before doing so, he asked for some refreshments, and was
shown into the refreshment room, which was legally not part of the inn,
and not endowed with the same liabilities as the other part, the inn
proper. On his way to this room, he met the hotel porter, who asked the
number of his room. He said that he did not know whether he was going
to stay overnight or not. The porter then locked the luggage in a room
in the passage used for that purpose. When the traveller required the
luggage, part of it could not be found. For this he sued the innkeeper,
but failed, as it was not considered to be satisfactorily proved that
he had become a guest of the innkeeper.
By an Act passed in 1863 (26 and 27 Vict. c. 41), the liability of
innkeepers for the goods of their guests was limited to the sum of
thirty pounds, except in two cases: (1) where the goods were deposited
for safe custody; (2) where the goods were stolen, lost, or injured
through the wilful act or neglect of the innkeeper. The innkeeper must
put up a notice of the Act in the hall of the inn, and he is entitled
to require that deposited goods shall be in a sealed box. This Act does
not apply to horses and carriages.
INCIDENTS OF RENT-COLLECTION IN IRELAND.
The collection of rents in Ireland is often an unpleasant duty; but
amusing incidents sometimes arise. Last year, a farmer in the county of
Cavan came to me on the rent-day and said he could not pay more than
half the sum he owed. He had much to tell of losses, bad times, and
low prices, and I listened with patience until he had finished. I then
reminded him that his rent had been reduced under the Land Act, and
that I had voluntarily cancelled a considerable arrear; and I firmly
refused to accept less than the full amount. Mickey Sheridan—that was
his name—was married, and I knew his wife ruled the roast.
‘Now, Mickey,’ said I, ‘you ought to be ashamed of yourself! After what
has been done to relieve you, I did expect you to behave better. I am
sure your wife would not approve of your conduct.’
Mickey had frequently confided to me that ‘herself’—his wife—gave him
‘a sore life;’ and I desired to learn how far she had meddled in this
matter.
After some hesitation, he replied: ‘Well, sir, if ye won’t discover on
me, I’ll tell ye the thruth. Herself advised me to pay only half the
rent. She’s a good scholar, an’ reads the papers; an’ she tells me a
new Land Act will soon be passed an’ all arrears wiped out.—Will yer
honour take the half-year?’
‘No, Mickey, I cannot. Be honest, and pay the money you owe. I feel
sure you have it all in your pocket.’
That was a hit; for Mickey, with an Irish peasant’s quick sense of
the humour of the situation, replied: ‘Begorra, it’s in two pockets!
Herself made up the two half-years in separate parcels, an’ put thim
into different pockets, to purvint any mistake; an’ I was only to give
yer honour one of thim, if I could manage it. But here’s the full
money, an’ maybe it’s best to keep out of debt.’
A few weeks later, when I was collecting rents in the county of
Longford, one of the principal tenants came forward, before any money
had been paid, as the spokesman of thirty others who were present, and
asked for an abatement.
‘Why, Pat Molloy,’ said I, ‘you and all here hold your farms at reduced
rents, which you agreed to pay under an amicable arrangement made only
two years ago and according to the provisions of the Land Act. I cannot
do what you ask; but if you really have not the full year’s rent, I
will accept three-fourths of it and give you a reasonable time to pay
the remainder.’
‘We thank yer honour,’ said Pat; ‘an’ here is my money.’
‘How much did you give me?’ said I, after I had carefully twice counted
the bundle of notes.
‘Thirty pounds, sir; an’ all in one-pound notes; an’ shure, it’s the
hard work I had to make it!’
‘Och, thrue for ye, Pat Molloy!’ said a voice behind him; ‘faith, it’s
not aisy to make the rint those times!’
‘Well, Pat,’ said I, ‘you have given me thirty-nine pounds; and I now
have the pleasure of handing you the receipt for the same.’
Whether the ten-pound note had been paid to Pat Molloy in mistake for
one pound, and its value was unknown to him, or that he had omitted to
take it out of the bundle, could only be matter of conjecture. He kept
a close mouth, and left the room.
The misadventure of their leader broke up the concerted union of
the tenants; and when I announced, after Molloy departed, that I
should insist on full payments—seeing ten-pound notes were apparently
plentiful in the district—nearly all the tenants came forward and paid.
It is well known that a great part of the thirty million of deposits
held by the Irish joint-stock banks have been lodged by farmers. I have
often received deposit receipts when collecting rents. I remember a
thrifty man who used to lodge his savings when they reached even five
pounds. On the rent-day, it was his annual custom to enlarge on the
badness of the times and the low prices; but he invariably supplied
the best refutation of his statements by producing a number of deposit
receipts for small sums and indorsing them with much pride.
When the land agitation was at its height a few years ago, a friend of
mine was collecting rents one day in a town in the county of Leitrim.
He was seated in a large room of a hotel, and nearly fifty tenants were
present. Very little money had been paid. Abatements were asked which
the agent had no power to make, and there was more conversation than
business going on. But my friend understands the Irish character and
its love of talk, and he knew that if he permitted the men to expatiate
on the reasons why they could not pay, he would be more likely finally
to get the money; so, he patiently listened to the usual jeremiades,
and bided his time. But fortune favoured him. The ringleader, or chief
Land-Leaguer, amongst the assembled tenants was Denis Lynch. He held a
small farm, but was also a cattle-dealer, and his time was of value to
him; and finding he could extract no further concession from the agent,
who had offered a fair abatement, he announced that he would pay a
half-year’s rent.
‘I must be off,’ he said, ‘to the fair of Boyle, sir, an’ can’t delay
here, like those men. Here is a deposit receipt for ten pounds, an’ the
half-year’s rint is nine pounds. But be all the saints, yer honour, I
made the little thrifle by dealing, an’ not out of the farm!’
‘Well, Denis,’ said the agent, ‘you could not deal in cattle without
a farm to feed and rest your stock; and I have told you that I am
instructed not to accept less than a year’s rent. But’—glancing at the
deposit receipt, which he had taken from the man, and turning it down
on the table—‘indorse this receipt, and I will consider your case.’
Lynch wrote his name across the back of the document; and the other
adding his own signature, said to his clerk: ‘Take this receipt to the
bank up the street and fetch me pound-notes for it.’ He then proceeded
to fill a form of receipt for a year’s rent, and handed it to Lynch,
who was astute enough to see that he might profit by what he supposed
was an error, and quietly folded up the receipt and put it into his
pocket.
When the clerk returned, the agent said: ‘Now, Denis, here is your
change;’ and he began counting and pushing across the table, to the
astonished tenant, note after note.
‘O sir,’ cried Lynch, ‘what are ye doin’ at all?’
‘Why, Denis,’ replied the other, ‘I am paying what is due to you.
You gave me a deposit receipt for one hundred pounds; you have got a
receipt for a year’s rent; and here are eighty-two one-pound notes,
together with eighteen shillings in silver, which is five per cent.
discount on your rent. You can’t blame me for retaining a year’s
rent—you accepted a receipt for it. And indeed, when a man has hundreds
at his banker’s, he may fairly be required to pay his rent in full.
Yet, I make you an allowance. You cannot suppose, after what has taken
place, and your readiness to avail yourself of what you believed to be
an error in the rent receipt, that you should receive the ten per cent.
abatement offered to the tenants generally. I have given you half of
it, not wishing to be severe. But your tricks have not succeeded; and I
hope you won’t forget the lesson of to-day, and that you will remember
in future that honesty is the best policy.’
All eyes in the room were turned on Lynch, who hastily gathered up the
notes and stuffed them into his pockets; and as he made his way to the
door, he was heard to murmur, ‘Begorra, ’twas the wrong receipt!’
He departed, feeling he had lost all title to leadership; and as men
will still worship success, even when accidental, many voices joined
in complimenting ‘his honour, who was too sharp for Denis Lynch, who
thought to act the rogue, but met wid a mistake, glory be to God!’
‘His honour’ was soon busily employed in receiving the full rents,
which nearly all the tenants had brought with them. But he believes his
collection on that day would have been a very small one, if Denis Lynch
had not presented the ‘wrong’ deposit receipt.
‘CLERGYMAN’S SORE THROAT.’
Dr Thomas Whipham, M.B., F.R.C.P., physician to St George’s Hospital,
and in charge of the department for Diseases of the Throat there,
claims to have discovered the origin of ‘clergyman’s sore throat,’ a
disorder which often proves so troublesome to ministers of religion.
He was struck, it appears, by the circumstance that barristers—from
whom as great oratorical efforts are exacted as from clergymen—do not
suffer from this highly painful and inconvenient form of sore throat.
He looked around for an explanation, and endeavoured, at first, to
trace it to adverse atmospheric conditions. But he early decided that
the air of a crowded court of law must be more injurious than that of
an ordinary place of worship; and hence he was forced to seek elsewhere
a satisfactory solution of the problem he had set himself. At length
the different positions, in relation to their auditors, from which
clergymen and barristers spoke, suggested itself for consideration.
While a barrister slightly threw back his head in addressing the judge
and jury who were seated above him, the clergyman depressed his in
addressing the congregation seated below him. Experiments were made
with a man reading aloud with his head in the two positions. In the
first, the tone of his voice was clear and penetrating, and phonation
was practised with a minimum of exertion; in the second, the tone grew
muffled, and the previous distinctness could only be approximated
with additional effort. Nor was indistinct utterance the only result
recorded of the experiment in the second position. The friction of the
air passing through the throat of the reader was very much increased.
Thus, says Dr Whipham, hyperæmia was established in the parts affected
by this excessive friction; and temporary hyperæmia, if frequently
encouraged, soon becomes chronic congestion. Dr Whipham was satisfied
that he had arrived at the true cause of ‘clergyman’s sore throat;’ and
facts soon came to confirm his impression. Two clergymen, hailing from
different parts of the country, placed themselves under treatment for
the disorder, which had long held a hold on them. They were directed,
in speaking from the pulpit, for the future to hold their heads well
up, instead of allowing them to droop forwards and downwards. Both soon
reported ‘a speedy relief from their suffering.’
IN THE DISTANT YEARS.
We met last in the distant years,
And parted, ne’er to meet again;
My aching eyes were filled with tears,
My heart was sore with untold pain.
But, though we parted thus for aye,
A lingering hope my heart yet holds,
That we may meet again some day
Ere Death shall shroud us in his folds.
We parted; ’twas the old, old way;
A too well-trusted friend’s deceit
Had taken each from each away,
Both hoping nevermore to meet.
_He_ thought that I was false; while _I_,
Enshadowed under falsehood’s spell,
In anger said a last good-bye
To him I once had loved so well.