NOTES BY THE ROAD. No. I. OF WHAT IT COSTS, AND HOW IT COSTS. GIL BLAS tells us, that when he left Oviedo on his way to Salamanque, with the paternal blessing, and master of his own motions, he was the owner of a mule which his uncle had given himassuring him it was well worth ten or twelve pistoles of sundry silver pieces which he had stolen from the same honored uncle, and of forty good ducats. But at the end of only the first day's travel, the young disputant found all his silver gone in a forced charity, his mule sold, upon the recommendation of his innkeeper, for a tenth of its value, and his ducats sadly encroached upon by a supper of omelettes and trout, given to an individual who had opened the way to the favor by flattering the vanity of the young traveler, and assuring him that he was la huitième merveille du monde. Poor Gil Blas! But there have been many since the time of the hero of Santillane, who have found themselves on the highway of travel, master of their own motions and an uncle's ducats, who have not known when to stop giving, nor on whose recommendation to bargain for their mules, nor when to cease fancying themselves a wonder of the world. Such will find their silver slipping away, and their ducats changing to silver. And sooner or later-the sooner the better-they will yield to the mortifying reflections of Gil Blas on the first night, at the hotellerie of Peñaflor :loin de m' exhorter à ne tromper personne, ils devaient me recommander de ne me pas laisser duper. Whoever travels now, travel where he will, will be very apt to find that the people among whom he travels have seen travelers before. It is worth while to remember this; not merely as a statistical fact which the progress of civilization and discovery makes true, but as one which may serve as the source of valuable reflections-reflections which very possibly may do away the necessity of any such first-day's experience as that recorded of the young philosopher of Oviedo. It possibly never occurred to him, that the high-road from Oviedo to Salamanque was made for anybody but himself-or that the old soldier who frightened him into charity was lying in wait for just such as he-or that the worthy innkeeper and honest jockey were established where they were on purpose to make bargains that should bring money out of travelers' pockets into their own-or that the decoy-duck, who had eaten of his omelettes and his trout, was acting only professionally, with just the sort of client in Gil Blas that his heart wished for. It is not altogether surprising, that even at that distant date, upon a high-road to Salamanque, there should be established at intervals personages who knew something of travelers' habits-of their need of good rest and carriage-and who had some crude notions of the capacity of travelers' pockets. But now the wonder is, if wonder it be, that they are to be found everywhere, that business, whim or adventure may take a man. When Saussure ascended Mont Blanc--nor was it so long ago as to be distant-he carried his own tent, and bargained for his own mule, and accomplished the task without meeting with honest jockeys or corcuelos. The top of Mont Blanc was more out of the way of travel than Salamanque for a long time; now propose to ascend it, and there are, at the least, a dozen guides to be kept, slept and dou ceured; so that he who treads on its everlasting snows has need, not only of zeal for science or spirit of adventure, but of at least forty of his own or his uncle's ducats. In fact, that whole system, whose initial elements struck the Salamancan traveler so strangely, and which occasioned him so poignant regrets, has now become, in nearly every country, legalized and codified. And though some previous knowledge of the science--for it is worth that name-may not enable the voyageur wholly to escape its exactions, it may yet give him the power to avail himself of its least objectionable provisions. To this end, and at the risk of making a very matter-of-fact, and consequently dull paper for many readers, we propose to say something about the necessary and the unnecessary expenses of traveling, commencing with the father-land. GREAT BRITAIN. On a misty, drizzling, or, as the English expressively and with constant good occasion, say, dirty morning, the traveler finds himself in one of those little rivers, which stream down out of the heart of the British Isle with pleasing sinuosities to the sea. Perhaps there is a bright blue sky overhead; for such instances are on record, though, from our own experience, having approached the coast only on four or five different occasions, we cannot vouch for the occurrence of the phenomenon. But let the weather be what it will, and the chances are, as they say at Plymouth-making a joke of their misfortune-thirteen out of twelve for rain, the traveler finds himself in sight of English landscape, with ten or twelve sovereigns jingling in his purse, a little British silver, and a little American coin, with an order on the Barings or the Brothers Brown, for two or three hundred pounds sterling. Perhaps it is in sight of the gray old houses and huge docks of Liverpool, that the new-comer first feels himself breathing English air: in that case, he will clamber from shipboard down upon one of those black, dismal-looking little steamers that are scudding in every direction through the dirty waters of the Mersey. His baggage, or what he must now begin to call luggage if he would be understood, goes, whether he wishes or no, to the Queen's warehouse. An old traveler, or whoever the stranger consults, will tell him that an hour or two must elapse before his effects will be examined. He therefore determines to find his hotel instanter. Various had been the recommendations to particular houses, before he had left the other side of the water, and they had formed the subject of the last two days' discussions on shipboard. Two or three decide upon the Adelphi, and a very innocent boy on the pier offers to conduct the "gemmen" to a cab. In a strange place the offer is not to be slighted. If it rains, of course a cab must be taken, and of course it rains. Up the long stone steps the initiates follow their conductor-they could not possibly have ascended in any other way-and at the top of the steps-they could not possibly have missed it—is a dirty-looking, yellow half coach, half cab, with one crazy horse, and a man in an oil-skin cloak and hat upon the box. The boy opens the door, throws down the steps, tells the carman the gentlemen "wishes" to go to the Adelphi, and— lifts his hat. Your English street-boy doesn't manage his hat with much grace, but with a great deal of meaning. There is no mistaking it; and our travelers congratulate themselves on so good an opportunity to get rid of some of their comparatively worthless American coin, and give the boy, with a chuckle, a dime. Another lift of the hat, and a chuckle that they do not hear, and the urchin runs away, glad to sell his money for threepence, and calls it a good day's work. The carman thrashes on as if he were afraid of ugly questions. Over pavements, firm as the everlasting hills, and under warehouses that pile up their stories of stone to a prodigious heightseeing no color but what is gray and sombre, and no material but what is lasting-through narrow streets and through broad streets-by all sorts of shops-a butcher's stall here, a silk importer's there amid all sorts of noises, from the cry of the wretched-looking women with hot baked chesnuts, to the horn of the conductor of the Everton "Bus," and the music of the bells of St. Peters, the travelers are at length set down before the door of the largest hotel in England. There is no bustle; there are no loiterers hanging about the doorway. The cabman is secured to take the parties to the Queen's warehouse in an hour's time, to see after the luggage; of which, en passant, every new traveler carries a halt too much. With a threepence to the boy, who was on the watch to open the cab, we presently find ourselves in the hall, where we are met by a prim personage in black, with nicely polished gaiters, white cravat and collar, whom, in our simplicity, we take to be no less than a chaplain or the host; but who, on further acquaintance, turns out to be only one of a numerous bevy of waiters, similarly attired, no one of whom is afraid of a sixpence, and any one of whom is glad to get a shilling. At the sound of a bell which this worthy rings, a little maid comes tripping down the stairs, and making a curtsy, conducts you to chambers which are types of comfort all over the world. Condemned now to the miserably contracted dimensions of the French couche, we bear vividly in mind the generous width and length of the good old high-post English bedstead, with its dark chintz curtains, lined with glazed cambric, closing all round you at night-its mattrass piled upon mattrass -its clean, heavy, stout cool linen, and heavy Dutch blankets over them, and wash-stand without a speck to mar its cleanliness, and polished grate, with polished shovel and poker, and bell-pull that is sure to ring. This is, it is true, a favorable picture, and better than most new-comers will find at the Adelphi, who will very likely climb three to four pairs of stairs, and find only a tent canopy swung over a bit of bedstead-but always cleanliness. And what is the English town inn below? There is no reading-room to stroll in upon, and spend a spare half-hour, no smoking-room, in which to take a lounge and a quiet whiff, no sittingroom, in which to retire with a friend for a private chat. And if you ask for one or the other, you will very likely be shown into the coffee-room, with its ranges of tables, at one of which may be a man with a very red nose and a very sharp collar, sipping his brandy and water; at another, a man in a still more pointed collar at a breakfast of cold chicken, eggs, shrimps and tea. A third is at lunch, upon cold beef, bitter ale and biscuit, and a fourth discussing the Times over a toddy. If our travelers enter, the man at the breakfast possibly raises his head, the man with the brandy and water blows his nose, and the man with the Times takes the supplement off the table by him and lays it in his lap. This is the nearest approach toward conversation that can reasonably be looked for in an English coffee-room. You may converse with a friend-at which, however, the man with the paper looks as if he thought you very uncivil, though he knows you are not; you may discuss the most exciting topics of the day, and throw into your remarks all the rancor you please, the man at the breakfast is as imperturbable as the cold chicken at which he is picking, and the gentleman at lunch turns off a tumbler of ale to your extravagances with a smack of the lips, and a twinkle of the eye, that seems to say, "I wish I had a cask of it." And if you fancy that some extraordinary burst of indignation has given offence to the stout gentleman with the red nose, who has rung so violently the bell, listen to what he says to the waiter now that the door opens: "John, another glass of brandy and water, please." If the stranger, with an aversion, not unnatural, to sauntering in an eatingroom, orders a parlor, he will find it in any large hotel as nice as could be wished for. There will be a sofa, not perhaps in the latest French style, but admirably adapted for comfort, and arm-chairs wide enough and easy enough for an East India Director, and there will be a grate that will burn without smoking, and a soft warm rug, and a footstool in the corner, and heavy damask curtains, and a bell that will secure attendance upon a touch, and-quiet-for it is your own parlor, and there will be no intruders. But it is time to look after our luggage. After whirling a mile or two, the cabman draws up under the heavy arches of the Queen's warehouse. If a large number of portmanteaus have come up from the ship, there is a crowd of hangers-on in the neighborhood; but very careful not to jog against the arms of the policemen, whom one learns to distinguish very quickly by their straight blue coats, white buttons, and shining leathern belts. The examination is conducted very quietly by a sub-official, who concludes as quietly, with saying in an under tone-" Thank ye." A month after, with the experience that a month gives, and the words would be easily understood. But the man in the baize resolves the present difficulty by saying, in unequivocal terms, and with an eye on the officer: "Shall we have a drink upon it" A sixpence is slipped into his hand by the novice a very shrewd and satisfactory way of replying. 66 You look for your cabman to bring out your trunks. But he tells you it's against the rule-the regular porters are only admitted. You search for a regular porter, who makes the transportation, and you put a shilling in his hand-too much by half. He turns it a time or two in his palm, and says, Please, sir, there's two of us-it's very little." You give him another, and he thanks you. The portmanteaus are on, and you jump in, thinking to make escape, but there is a boy upon the step, who keeps his hold at the window : 66 Threepence, sirplease, sir; very heavy portmanteaus, sir, helped put 'em up, sir-always usual, sir-thank ye, sir." The inn gained, you ask, with an inward tremor, what is to pay. Half-a-guinea, sir." Demurring is in vain, at least with the stranger. The money is paid; but, not content with this, cochee says: "We pays heavy for license; can your honor help a poor man a bit toward paying his license?" If you say, "Begone," the matter ends and the man is satisfied. If you hesitate an instant, if you reason with him, he pushes harder, and eventually adds a sixpence to his half-guinea. But, whatever expenses thus far, dinner must be had; and every one who has tossed upon the waters of the Atlantic will bear us witness that a dinner on shore is looked forward to with many a wishful sigh. A dinner of a chop or a steak may be had upon short notice; but if the mind's eye is fastened upon a good brown-done joint, swimming in its own gravy, the order must be, in ordinary cases, after four o'clock. If the snug, quiet parlor, with its cheerful blazing fire, has been secured-and it is an easy thing to order it-the table is presently spread with a cloth-white as snow-the corners hanging to the floor, which of itself has a look that whets an appetite better than bitters. Then the waiter slips softly round, and lays the glass and the silver, and the clean napkin, which he has a way of folding very ingeniously into the form of a cocked hat. Next, he comes with a big tray full, that he sets carefully upon the side-board: there is a quarter of a cheese, yellow as gold, and a dish of nice-looking bread, and sharp-looking vinegars, and sunnylooking oil, and a great glass vase of celery, as white as the cloth. Presently comes in, under cover, but sending out rich fumes, the nicely-done joint, and the side dishes of smoking potatoes, and a sweet little head of brocoli, and the hot plate, always hot, to eat from. Then one of the big arm-chairs is drawn to the head, and the wax candles set, one on each side, and the fire stirred anew, and all the cinders brushed carefully under the grate. Then comes the question, too tempting for frail humanity-" -“What wine, sir?" If one has the courage to say, none, the waiter will perhaps understand you, Macon, for which you will be charged some six or seven shillings in the bill: to prevent, therefore, misunderstanding, it would perhaps be as well to say, "Half a pint of sherry." The sherry comes in a little glass decanter, just big enough to hold it; and the waiter says-" Mild or bitter ale, sir?" If you say none, again, he may understand you porter. Besides, something must be drunk with the wine, and who ever saw a man drink water in England? It is bitter ale, then, or, if you like it better, brown. And with this beside you, and the dish before you, what could a hungry man wish for more? They have good dinners in their way in France, with their bauf braise, and fricandeaux, and omelettes au confiture-"the best cooks in the world," as Goldsmith says, "if they had only butchers' meat;" and the Germans give a good dinner that one thinks never will end, so many are the courses: but, after all, give us the juicy, mottled, hot roast beef of England, with a foaming tankard of sparkling brown stout, with flaky-crusted tart in prospect, and crisp celery, and Cheshire cheese beyond-" head of Apicius, what a banquet!" But the dinner is finished, and after it comes in, in a snug way, the tea, with a hot muffin-of which, however, little good can be said; and after that the evening paper-the Globe or the Standardand after it the bed-room candle and a good night's sleep. The morning, if you are not too early, sees a fire glowing in the grate, and the cloth laid, with cold beef, cold tongue and cold chicken; and at a touch of the bell, the waiter will bring up coffee and hot milk, and muffins and eggs-if you choose it, a chop. All are good, except the coffee and the muffin. The bill, if ordered, will run something this way: Parlor, 6s.; dinner, 4s. 6d.; wine, 2s.; ale, 1s.; tea, 2s.; fire, 28.; wax lights, 1s.; bed, 3s. 6d.; breakfast, 3s. 6d. The stranger will very likely have an idea, gained from very authentic sources, that the waiter will expect a small douceur. In ignorance of what the amount should be, and fearing thus early to break established rules, he takes the exceedingly judicious course of consulting the personage himself. It is impossible to argue against the condescending tone in which Thomas gives the desired information, and two shillings are put into his hands. At the foot of the stairs is the smiling woman who has made your bed and supplied you with towels. If you consult Thomas again, he will say, "Gentlemen who takes a parlor usually gives a shilling to the housemaid, sir." And a shilling is given, for which you have a curtsy as gratifying to your vanity as were the soft assurances of the cavalier at Peñaflor to along at the rate of forty miles in the hour, is made no way better for a look out place by this extraordinary speed. With but one change of carriage, under the magnificent iron roofs of the station house at Birmingham, the traveler arrives, in from six to ten hours after leaving, at the Euston square in London. The old traveler, who is never embarrassed with more luggage than he can carry a short distance himself, winds his way amid the throng, his carpet-bag in one hand, his umbrella in the other, and in five minutes' time is snug in the corner of an omnibus, which for sixpence will take him within a square of his hotel. Your new traveler, on the other hand, is in a fever of excite ment. He sees a great many portmanteaus, very like his own, going off one by one, and he is afraid of his luggage, though it was never safer in the world. He sees a great many cabs coming up, taking their fares and driving away, and he is afraid he will be left without one: he never had a more groundless fear in his life. He sees a great many designing-looking men, and is afraid that, one way or another, he will be cheated: he never had a more rational fear in his life. While he remains within limits that are subject to the jurisdiction of the railway, he is safe from all trickery. The company guards against all extortion from travelers on the part of any one but themselves. His luggage is at length come to the hammer of the conductor for an owner, and, if he chooses, is put upon the cab he selects out of the five or six whose places are constantly supplied. Some seemingly judicious friend has recommended Morley's Hotel, both for its situation and its arrangements. Both are unexceptionable; and if there were no other consideration, no advice could be better. But if the visitor have in view a trip upon the Continent, after a stop at either Morley's, or Mivart's, or the Clarendon, he will have need to take an early opportunity-whatever his present resources of sending for a new draft upon the Barings. He must be an old traveler who makes expenses at either of the houses named come under ten dollars a day-much oftener exceeding twenty. Such as feel a sort of pride in spending money freely-for the spirit is growing and branching, unfortunately, in our country-will choose the Clarendon, but will very probably find those there who will treat guineas as they have been used to treat shillings, and will have the mortifying embarrassment of being outwitted in their witlessness. For a man to play at extravagances in London, and make a show at the play, he must have not only his thousands, or his tens of thousands, or hundreds, or millions even, but almost his tens of millions. Leaving, then, the more noted houses of Charing Cross and Grosvenor and Cavendish squares to dowager old women who loll about in silk-lined carriages, with puppets in their armsand to younger scions of noble houses, who spend a week in London (at the expense of an elder brother) on their way to India, with a commission in the dragoons-and to men about town, who are waiting a berth in some club-house-and to such foreigners as care less for money than appearances-our stranger will find more comfort if the cabman sets him down, on the night of his arrival, at some quiet boarding-house or unpretending inn, anywhere between Hyde Park and the Strand; or he may take lodgings, finding his breakfast at a coffee-room next door, and dine at the eating-rooms around Westminster or under the shadow of St. Paul's. Either of the latter methods will average from twelve to twenty dollars the week; and if the new-comer patronize, on frequent occasions, the dress circle of Her Majesty's theatre and the shops in Regent street, he may safely multiply the last estimate by four, without reckoning very wide of the truth. And, at the best, keeping eyes wide open as he may, the stranger in London will find his ducats fast changing to silver, and his silver slipping away. Setting aside a very pretty side view of London bridge from the Waterman's pier, and of Waterloo bridge from the balustrade of the London, and of St. Paul's from Ludgate Hill, (this last at the risk of being run over,) little can be seen in London without paying for the sight. The Poet's Corner, at Westminster, is indeed free; but if you wander into that neighborhood with the air of a stranger, (and what stranger of less than half a year's standing can shake off a look of wonderment as he strolls between Westminster Hall and the magnificent tracery of Henry the Seventh's chapel ?) you will have a porter or two, with brass labels about their necks, who, with a tip of the hat, will offer to conduct you down the narrow court into the little entry of the Poet's Corner. For this charitable office it is needless to say that at least a sixpence will be expected. The vergers are there in their black gowns, who will sell you a guide for five shillings, or will show |