on with most Ulster people, we always
stayed at the Bilton Hotel in Dublin, a fine old Georgian house in
Sackville Street. Everything at the Bilton was old, solid, heavy, and
eminently respectable. All the plate was of real Georgian silver, and
all the furniture in the big gloomy bedrooms was of solid, not
veneered, mahogany. Quite invariably my father was received in the
hall, on arrival, by the landlord, with a silver candlestick in his
hand. The landlord then proceeded ceremoniously to "light us upstairs"
to a sitting-room on the first floor, although the staircase was bright
with gas. This was a survival from the eighteenth century, when
staircases and passages in inns were but dimly lit; but it was an
attention that was expected. In the same way, when dinner was ready in
our sitting-room, the landlord always brought in the silver soup-tureen
with his own hands, placed it ceremoniously before my father, and
removed the cover with a great flourish; after which he retired, and
left the rest to the waiter. This was another traditional attention.

Towards the end of dinner it became my father's turn to repay these
civilities. Though he himself very rarely touched wine, he would look
down the wine-list until he found a peculiarly expensive port. This he
would order for what was then termed "the good of the house." When this
choice product of the Bilton bins made its appearance, wreathed in
cobwebs, in a wicker cradle, my father would send the waiter with a
message to the landlord, "My compliments to Mr. Massingberg, and will
he do me the favour of drinking a glass of wine with me." So the
landlord would reappear, and, sitting down opposite my father, they
would solemnly dispose of the port, and let us trust that it never gave
either of them the faintest twinge of gout. These little mutual
attentions were then expected on both sides. Neither my father nor
mother ever used the word "hotel" in speaking of any hostelry in the
United Kingdom. Like all their contemporaries, they always spoke of an
"inn."

In 1860 a new contract had been signed with the Post Office by the
London and North-Western Railway and the City of Dublin Steam-Packet
Co., by which they jointly undertook to convey the mails between London
and Dublin in eleven hours. Up to 1860, the time occupied by the
journey was from fourteen to sixteen hours. Everything in this world
being relative, this was rapidity itself compared to the five days my
uncle, Lord Joh