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.
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