that the chance of being held up by "road agents" is to-day
practically non-existent, and that the spectacle of a crowd of yelling
Apaches making a stage-coach the pin-cushion for their arrows is now
to be seen nowhere but in Buffalo Bill's Wild West show. But the
roads! No European who has done much driving in the United States can
doubt for one moment that the required Man of the Hour is General
Wade.[31] Even in the State of New York I have been in a stage that
was temporarily checked by a hole two feet deep in the centre of the
road, and that had to be emptied _and held up_ while passing another
part of the same road. In Virginia I drove over a road, leading to one
of the most frequented resorts of the State, which it is simple truth
to state offered worse going than any ordinary ploughed field. The
wheels were often almost entirely submerged in liquid mud, and it is
still a mystery to me how the tackle held together. To be jolted off
one's seat so violently as to strike the top of the carriage was not a
unique experience. Nor was the spending of ten hours in making thirty
miles with four horses. In the Yellowstone one of the coaches of our
party settled down in the midst of a slough of despond on the highway,
from which it was finally extricated _backwards_ by the combined
efforts of twelve horses borrowed from the other coaches. Misery makes
strange bedfellows, and the ingredients of a Christmas pudding are not
more thoroughly shaken together or more inextricably mingled than
stage-coach passengers in America are apt to be. The difficulties of
the roads have developed the skill, courage, and readiness of the
stage-coach men to an extraordinary degree, and I have never seen
bolder or more dexterous driving than when California Bill or Colorado
Jack rushed his team of four young horses down the breakneck slopes of
these terrible highways. After one particularly hair-raising descent
the driver condescended to explain that he was afraid to come down
more slowly, lest the hind wheels should skid on the smooth rocky
outcrop in the road and swing the vehicle sideways into the abyss. In
coming out of the Yosemite, owing to some disturbance of the ordinary
traffic arrangements our coach met the incoming stage at a part of the
road so narrow that it seemed absolutely impossible for the two to
pass each other. On the one side was a yawning precipice, on the other
the mountain rose steeply from the roadside. The off-wheels of the
incoming coach were tilted up on the hillside as far as they could be
without an upset. In vain; our hubs still locked. We were then allowed
to dismount. Our coach was backed down for fifty yards or so. Small
heaps of stones were piled opposite the hubs of the stationary coach.
Our driver whipped his horses to a gallop, ran his near-wheels over
these stones so that their hubs were raised _above_ those of the
near-wheels of the other coach, and successfully made the dare-devil
passage, in which he had not more than a couple of inches' margin to
save him from precipitation into eternity. I hardly knew which to
admire most--the ingenuity which thus made good in altitude what it
lacked in latitude, or the phlegm with which the occupants of the
other coach retained their seats throughout the entire episode.
The Englishman arriving in Boston, say in the middle of the lovely
autumnal weather of November, will be surprised to find a host of
workmen in the Common and Public Garden busily engaged in laying down
miles of portable "plank paths" or "board walks," elevated three or
four inches above the level of the ground. A little later, when the
snowy season has well set in, he will discover the usefulness of these
apparently superfluous planks; and he will hardly be astonished to
learn that the whole of the Northern States are covered in winter with
a network of similar paths. These gangways are made in sections and
numbered, so that when they are withdrawn from their summer seclusion
they can be laid down with great precision and expedition. No
statistician, so far as I know, has calculated the total length of the
plank paths of an American winter; but I have not the least doubt that
they would reach from the earth to the moon, if not to one of the
planets.
The river and lake steamboats of the United States are on the average
distinctly better than any I am acquainted with elsewhere. The
much-vaunted splendours of such Scottish boats as the "Iona" and
"Columba" sink into insignificance when compared with the wonderful
vessels of the line plying from New York to Fall River. These steamers
deserve the name of floating hotel or palace much more than even the
finest ocean-liner, because to their sumptuous appointments they add
the fact that they are, except under very occasional circumstances,
_floating_ palaces and not _reeling_ or _tossing_ ones. The only hotel
to which I can honestly compare the "Campania" is the one at San
Francisco in which I experienced my first earthquake. But even the
veriest landsman of them all can enjoy the passage of Long Island
Sound in one of these stately and stable vessels, whether sitting
indoors listening to the excellent band in one of the spacious
drawing-rooms in which there is absolutely no rude reminder of the
sea, or on deck on a cool summer night watching the lights of New York
gradually vanish in the black wake, or the moon riding triumphantly as
queen of the heavenly host, and the innumerable twinkling beacons that
safeguard our course. And when he retires to his cabin, pleasantly
wearied by the glamour of the night and soothed by the supple
stability of his floating home, he will find his bed and his bedroom
twice as large as he enjoyed on the Atlantic, and may let the breeze
enter, undeterred by fear of intruding wave or breach of regulation.
If he takes a meal on board he will find the viands as well cooked and
as dexterously served as in a fashionable restaurant on shore; he may
have, should he desire it, all the elbow-room of a separate table, and
nothing will suggest to him the confined limits of the cook's galley
or the rough-and-ready ways of marine cookery.
Little inferior to the Fall River boats are those which ascend the
Hudson from New York to Albany, one of the finest river voyages in the
world; and worthy to be compared with these are the Lake Superior
steamers of the Canadian Pacific Railway. Among the special advantages
of these last are the device by which meals are served in the fresh
atmosphere of what is practically the upper deck, the excellent
service of the neat lads who officiate as waiters and are said to be
often college students turning an honest summer penny, and the
frequent presence in the bill of fare of the _Coregonus clupeiformis_,
or Lake Superior whitefish, one of the most toothsome morsels of the
deep. Most of the other steamboat lines by which I travelled in the
United States and Canada seemed to me as good as could be expected
under the circumstances. There is, however, certainly room for
improvement in some of the boats which ply on the St. Lawrence, and
the Alaska service will probably grow steadily better with the growing
rush of tourists.
Another wonderful instance of British conservatism is the way in which
we have stuck to the horrors of our own ferry-boat system long after
America has shown us the way to cross a ferry comfortably. It is true
that the American steam ferry-boats are not so graceful as ours,
looking as they do like Noah's arks or floating houses, and being
propelled by the grotesque daddy-long-leg-like arrangement of the
walking-beam engine. They are, however, far more suitable for their
purpose. The steamer as originally developed was, I take it, intended
for long (or at any rate longish) voyages, and was built as far as
possible on the lines of a sailing-vessel. The conservative John Bull
never thought of modifying this shape, even when he adopted the
steamboat for ferries such as that across the Mersey from Liverpool to
Birkenhead. He still retained the sea-going form, and passengers had
either to remain on a lofty deck, exposed to the full fury of the
elements, or dive down into the stuffy depths of an unattractive
cabin. As soon, however, as Brother Jonathan's keen brain had to
concern itself with the problem, he saw the topsy-turvyness of this
arrangement. Hence in his ferry-boats there are no "underground"
cabins, no exasperating flights of steps. We enter the ferry-house and
wait comfortably under shelter till the boat approaches its "slip,"
which it does end on. The disembarking passengers depart by one
passage, and as soon as they have all left the boat we enter by
another. A roadway and two side-walks correspond to these divisions on
the boat, which we enter on the level we are to retain for the
passage. In the middle is the gangway for vehicles, to the right and
left are the cabins for "ladies" and "gentlemen," each running almost
the whole length of the boat. There is a small piece of open deck at
each end, and those who wish may ascend to an upper deck. These
long-drawn-out cabins are simply but suitably furnished with seats
like those in a tramway-car or American railway-carriage. The boat
retraces its course without turning round, as it is a "double-ender."
On reaching the other side of the river we simply walk out of the boat
as we should out of a house on the street-level. The tidal difficulty
is met by making the landing-stage a floating one, and of such length
that the angle it forms with terra firma is never inconvenient.
A Swiss friend of mine, whose ocean steamer landed him on the New
Jersey shore of the North River, actually entered the cabin of the
ferry-boat under the impression that it was a waiting-room on shore.
The boat slipped away so quietly that he did not discover his mistake
until he had reached the New York side of the river; and then there
was no more astonished man on the whole continent!
The transition from travelling facilities to the telegraphic and
postal services is natural. The telegraphs of the United States are
not in the hands of the government, but are controlled by private
companies, of which the Western Union, with its headquarters in New
York, is _facile princeps_. This company possesses the largest
telegraph system in the world, having 21,000 offices and 750,000 miles
of wire. It also leases or uses seven Atlantic cables. In this,
however, as in many other cases, size does not necessarily connote
quality. My experiences _may_ (like the weather) have been
exceptional, and the attempt to judge of this Hercules by the foot I
saw may be wide of the mark; but here are three instances which are at
any rate suspicious:
I was living at Germantown, a suburb of Philadelphia, and left one day
about 2 P.M. for the city, intending to return for dinner. On the way,
however, I made up my mind to dine in town and go to the theatre, and
immediately on my arrival at Broad-street station (about 2.15 P.M.)
telegraphed back to this effect. When I reached the house again near
midnight, I found the messenger with my telegram ringing the bell!
Again, a friend of mine in Philadelphia sent a telegram to me one
afternoon about a meeting in the evening; it reached me in Germantown,
at a distance of about five miles, at 8 o'clock the following morning.
Again, I left Salisbury (N.C.) one morning about 9 A.M. for Asheville,
having previously telegraphed to the baggage-master at the latter
place about a trunk of mine in his care. My train reached Asheville
about 5 or 6 P.M. I went to the baggage-master, but found he had not
received my wire. While I was talking to him, one of the train-men
entered and handed it to him. _It had, apparently, been sent by hand
on the train by which I had travelled!_ This telegraphic giant may, of
course, have accidentally and exceptionally put his wrong foot
foremost on those occasions; but such are the facts.
The postal service also struck me as on the whole less prompt and
accurate than that of Great Britain. The comparative infrequency of
fully equipped post-offices is certainly an inconvenience. There are
letter-boxes enough, and the commonest stamps may be procured in every
drug-store (and of these there is no lack!) or even from the postmen;
but to have a parcel weighed, to register a letter, to procure a
money-order, or sometimes even to buy a foreign stamp or post-card,
the New Yorker or Philadelphian has to go a distance which a Londoner
or Glasgowegian would think distinctly excessive. It appears from an
official table prepared in 1898 that about half the population of the
United States live outside the free delivery service, and have to call
at the post-office for their letters. On the other hand, the
arrangements at the chief post-offices are very complete, and the
subdivisions are numerous enough to prevent the tedious delays of the
offices on the continent of Europe. The registration fee (eight cents)
is double that of England. The convenient "special delivery stamp"
(ten cents) entitles a letter to immediate delivery by special
messenger. The tendency for the establishment of slight divergency in
language between England and America is seen in the terms of the
post-office as in those of the railway. A letter is "mailed," not
"posted;" the "postman" gives way to the "letter-carrier;" a
"post-card" is expanded into a "postal-card." The stranger on arrival
at New York will be amused to see the confiding way in which newspaper
or book packets, too large for the orifice, are placed on the top of
the street letter-boxes (affixed to lamp-posts), and will doubtless be
led to speculate on the different ways and instincts of the street
Arabs of England and America. A second reflection will suggest to him
the superior stability of the New York climate. On what day in England
could we leave a postal packet of printed matter in the open air with
any certainty that it would not be reduced to pulp in half an hour by
a deluge of rain?
No remarks on the possible inferiority of the American telegraph and
postal systems would be fair if unaccompanied by a tribute to the
wonderful development of the use of the telephone. New York has (or
had very recently) more than twice as many subscribers to the
telephonic exchanges as London, and some American towns possess one
telephone for every twenty inhabitants, while the ratio in the British
metropolis is 1:3,000. In 1891 the United States contained 240,000
miles of telephone wires, used by over 200,000 regular subscribers. In
1895 the United Kingdom had about 100,000 miles of wire. The
Metropolitan telephone in New York alone has 30,000 miles of
subterranean wire and about 9,000 stations. The great switch-board at
its headquarters is 250 feet long, and accommodates the lines of 6,000
subscribers. Some subscribers call for connection over a hundred times
a day, and about one hundred and fifty girls are required to answer
the calls.
The generalisations made in travellers' books about the hotels of
America seem to me as fallacious as most of the generalisations about
this chameleon among nations. Some of the American hotels I stayed at
were about the best of their kind in the world, others about the
worst, others again about half-way between these extremes. On the
whole, I liked the so-called "American system" of an inclusive price
by the day, covering everything except such purely voluntary extras as
wine; and it seems to me that an ideal hotel on this system would
leave very little to wish for. The large American way of looking at
things makes a man prefer to give twenty shillings per day for all he
needs and consumes rather than be bothered with a bill for sixteen to
seventeen shillings, including such items (not disdained even by the
swellest European hotels) as one penny for stationery or a shilling
for lights. The weak points of the system as at present carried on are
its needless expense owing to the wasteful profusion of the
management, the tendency to have cast-iron rules for the hours within
which a guest is permitted to be hungry, the refusal to make any
allowance for absence from meals, and the general preference for
quantity over quality. It is also a pity that baths are looked upon as
a luxury of the rich and figure as an expensive extra; it is seldom
that a hotel bath can be obtained for less than two shillings. There
would seem, however, to be no reason why the continental _table
d'hôte_ system should not be combined with the American plan. The
bills of fare at present offered by large American hotels, with lists
of fifty to one hundred different dishes to choose from, are simply
silly, and mark, as compared with the _table d'hôte_ of, say, a good
Parisian hotel, a barbaric failure to understand the kind of meal a
lady or gentleman should want. To prepare five times the quantity
that will be called for or consumed is to confess a lack of all
artistic perception of the relations of means and end. The man who
gloats over a list of fifty possible dishes is not at all the kind of
customer who deserves encouragement. The service would also be
improved if the waiters had not to carry in their heads the
heterogeneous orders of six or eight people, each selecting a dozen
different meats, vegetables, and condiments. The European or _à la
carte_ system is becoming more and more common in the larger cities,
and many houses offer their patrons a choice of the two plans; but the
fixed-price system is almost universal in the smaller towns and
country districts. In houses on the American system the price
generally varies according to the style of room selected; but most of
the inconvenience of a bedchamber near the top of the house is
obviated by the universal service of easy-running "elevators" or
lifts. (By the way, the persistent manner in which the elevators are
used on all occasions is often amusing. An American lady who has some
twenty shallow steps to descend to the ground floor will rather wait
patiently five minutes for the elevator than walk downstairs.)
Many of the large American hotels have defects similar to those with
which we are familiar in their European prototypes. They have the
same, if not an exaggerated, gorgeousness of bad taste, the same
plethora of ostentatious "luxuries" that add nothing to the real
comfort of the man of refinement, the same pier glasses in heavy gilt
frames, the same marble consoles, the same heavy hangings and absurdly
soft carpets. On the other hand, they are apt to lack some of the
unobtrusive decencies of life, which so often mark the distinction
between the modest home of a private gentleman and the palace of the
travelling public. Indeed, it might truthfully be said that, _on the
whole_, the passion for show is more rampant among American
hotel-keepers than elsewhere. They are apt to be more anxious to have
all the latest "improvements" and inventions than to ensure the smooth
and easy running of what they already have. You will find a huge
"teleseme" or indicator in your bedroom, on the rim of which are
inscribed about one hundred different objects that a traveller may
conceivably be supposed to want; but you may set the pointer in vain
for your modest lemonade or wait half an hour before the waiter
answers his complicated electric call. The service is sometimes very
poor, even in the most pretentious establishments. On the other hand,
I never saw better service in my life than that of the neat and
refined white-clad maidens in the summer hotels of the White
Mountains, who would take the orders of half-a-dozen persons for half
a dozen different dishes each, and execute them without a mistake. It
is said that many of these waitresses are college-girls or even
school-mistresses, and certainly their ladylike appearance and
demeanour and the intelligent look behind their not infrequent
spectacles would support the assertion. It gave one a positive thrill
to see the margin of one's soup-plate embraced by a delicate little
pink-and-white thumb that might have belonged to Hebe herself, instead
of the rawly red or clumsily gloved intruder that we are all too
familiar with. The waiting of the coloured gentleman is also pleasant
in its way to all who do not demand the episcopal bearing of the best
English butler. The smiling darkey takes a personal interest in your
comfort, may possibly enquire whether you have dined to your liking,
is indefatigable in ministering to your wants, slides and shuffles
around with a never-failing _bonhomie_, does everything with a
characteristic flourish, and in his neat little white jacket often
presents a most refreshing cleanliness of aspect as compared with the
greasy second-hand dress coats of the European waiter.
As a matter of fact, so much latitude is usually allowed for each meal
(breakfast from 8 to 11, dinner from 12 to 8, and so on) that it is
seldom really difficult to get something to eat at an American hotel
when one is hungry. At some hotels, however, the rules are very
strict, and nothing is served out of meal hours. At Newport I came in
one Sunday evening about 8 o'clock, and found that supper was over.
The manager actually allowed me to leave his hotel at once (which I
did) rather than give me anything to eat. The case is still more
absurd when one arrives by train, having had no chance of a square
meal all day, and is coolly expected to go to bed hungry! The genuine
democrat, however, may take what comfort he can from the thought that
this state of affairs is due to the independence of the American
servants, who have their regular hours and refuse to work beyond them.
The lack of smoking-rooms is a distinct weak point in American hotels.
One may smoke in the large public office, often crowded with loungers
not resident in the hotel, or may retire with his cigar to the
bar-room; but there is no pleasant little snuggery provided with
arm-chairs and smokers' tables, where friends may sit in pleasant,
nicotine-wreathed chat, ringing, when they want it, for a
whiskey-and-soda or a cup of coffee.
American hotels, even when otherwise good, are apt to be noisier than
European ones. The servants have little idea of silence over their
work, and the early morning chambermaids crow to one another in a way
that is very destructive of one's matutinal slumbers. Then somebody or
other seems to crave ice-water at every hour of the day or night, and
the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of the ice-pitcher in the corridors becomes
positively nauseous when one wants to go to sleep. The innumerable
electric bells, always more or less on the go, are another auditory
nuisance.
While we are on the question of defects in American hotels, it should
be noticed that the comfortable little second-class inns of Great
Britain are practically unknown in the United States. The second-class
inns there are run on the same lines as the best ones; but in an
inferior manner at every point. The food is usually as abundant, but
it is of poorer quality and worse cooked; the beds are good enough,
but not so clean; the table linen is soiled; the sugar bowls are left
exposed to the flies from week-end to week-end; the service is poor
and apt to be forward; and (last, but not least) the manners of the
other guests are apt to include a most superfluous proportion of
tobacco-chewing, expectorating, an open and unashamed use of the
toothpick, and other little amenities that probably inflict more
torture on those who are not used to them than would decorous breaches
of the Decalogue.
In criticising American hotels, it must not be forgotten that the
rapid process of change that is so characteristic of America operates
in this sphere with especial force. This is at work a distinct
tendency to substitute the subdued for the gaudy, the refined for the
meretricious, the quiet for the loud; and even now the cultured
American who knows his _monde_ may spend a great part of his time in
hotels without conspicuously lowering the tone of his environment.
The prevalent idea that the American hotel clerk is a mannerless
despot is, _me judice_, rather too severe. He is certainly apt to be
rather curt in his replies and ungenial in his manner; but this is not
to be wondered at when one reflects under what a fire of questions he
stands all day long and from week to week; and, besides, he does
generally give the information that is wanted. That he should wear
diamond studs and dress gorgeously is not unnatural when one considers
the social stratum from which he is drawn. Do not our very cooks the
same as far as they can? That he should somewhat magnify the
importance of his office is likewise explicable; and, after all, how
many human beings have greater power over the actual personal comforts
of the fraction of the world they come into contact with? I can,
however, truthfully boast that I met hotel clerks who, in moments of
relief from pressure, treated me almost as an equal, and one or two
who seemed actually disposed to look on me as a friend. I certainly
never encountered any actual rudeness from the American hotel clerk
such as I have experienced from the pert young ladies who sometimes
fill his place in England; and in the less frequented resorts he
sometimes took a good deal of trouble to put the stranger in the way
to do his business speedily and comfortably. His omniscience is great,
but not so phenomenal as I expected; I posed him more than once with
questions about his abode which, it seemed to me, every intelligent
citizen should have been able to answer easily. In his most
characteristic development the American hotel clerk is an urbane
living encyclopædia, as passionless as the gods, as unbiassed as the
multiplication table, and as tireless as a Corliss engine.