I had scarcely twenty-four hours left for the Imperial City before the
Edinburgh sailed. This time I abode at the New York Hotel, where a
Baltimorean had already secured quarters. This much, at least, must be
conceded to the Yankee capital. In no other town that I know of can a
traveler so thoroughly take his ease in his inn. These magnificent
_caravanserais_ cast far into the shade the best managed establishments
of London, Paris, or Vienna, simply because luxuries enough to satiate
any moderate desires, are furnished at fixed prices that need not alarm
the most economical traveler. The _cuisine_ at the New York Hotel is
really artistic, and the attendance quite perfect. Also is found there a
certain Chateau Margaux of '48: after savoring that rich liquid velvet,
you wilt not wonder that the house has long been a favorite with the
Southern Sybarites. Things are changed, of course, now, and many of Mr.
Cranston's old patrons must now exercise their critical tastes on
mountain whisky and ration beef; but the tone of feeling in the
establishment remains the same. An out-spoken Republican or Abolitionist
would not meet a cordial welcome from the present frequenters of the New
York, nor, I think, from its jovial host. Likewise the Empress City can
boast that her barbers and iced drinks do actually "beat all creation.
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