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From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

A 19th century inn in Vălenii de Munte, Romania (currently in Village Museum, Bucharest)

Inns are generally establishments or buildings where travelers can seek lodging and, usually, food and drink. They are typically located in the country or along a highway.

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History and origins

American scenery—the inn on the roadside (1872)

Found in Europe, they possibly first sprang up when the Romans built their system of Roman roads two millennia ago. Some inns in Europe are several centuries old. In addition to providing for the needs of travellers, inns traditionally acted as community gathering places.

In Europe, it is the provision of accommodation, if anything, that now differentiates inns from taverns, alehouses and pubs. The latter tend to supply alcohol (and, in the UK, usually soft drinks and sometimes food), but less commonly accommodation. Inns tend to be grander and more long-lived establishments; historically they provided not only food and lodging, but also stabling and fodder for the traveller's horse(s) and for fresh horses for the mail coach. Famous London examples of inns include the George and The Tabard. There is however no longer a formal distinction between an inn and other kinds of establishment. Many pubs use the name "inn", either because they are long established and may have been formerly coaching inns, or to summon up a particular kind of image.

The original functions of an inn are now usually split among separate establishments, such as hotels, lodges, and motels, all of which might provide the traditional functions of an inn but which focus more on lodging customers than on other services; public houses, which are primarily alcohol-serving establishments; and restaurants and taverns, which serve food and drink. (Hotels often contain restaurants and also often serve complimentary breakfast and meals, thus providing all of the functions of traditional inns.) In North America, the lodging aspect of the word "inn" lives on in hotel brand names like Holiday Inn, and in some state laws that refer to lodging operators as innkeepers.

German language

The German words for "innkeeper", and "innkeeping" illustrate the historical importance of inns. An innkeeper is a Wirt, and innkeeping is Wirtschaft. This last word, Wirtschaft, has extended its meaning beyond the management of an inn and is now the German term for management in general and economy; the latter usage may have derived by analogy, as the word "economy" itself comes from the Greek word "oikonomia" for household management (from oikos, "house," and nemein, "to manage").

Seljuq and Ottoman inns

They use to call places inns (Turkish: han) which were providing accommodation for both humans and their vehicles or mount animals. Inns were the places where people could spend the night with or without transportation.

Seljuqs and Ottomans have built impressive structures (inns) because they thought inns had a social significance.

They use to build inns to the middle of 2 cities if distance between them is too long. They called these structures caravansary (an inn with large courtyard). These structures which were built out of city contained large amount of water (for both drink and use). They also contained café and food and bait supplies. After the caravans proceeded a while they take a break at these caravansaries, spent the night there and rested both themselves and their animals.

Inns of Court

The Inns of Court in London were originally ordinary inns where barristers met to do business, but have become institutions of the legal profession in England and Wales.

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The initials INN may stand for:

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Travel guide

Up to date as of January 14, 2010
(Redirected to Engadine article)

From Wikitravel

Contents

The Engadine is in Switzerland, in the canton Graubunden.

    • Maloja (Upper Engadine)
      • Maloja
      • Bergell
      • Oberengadin
      • Sils im Engadin
      • Silvaplana
      • Champfer
      • St. Moritz
      • Celerina
      • Pontresina
      • Samedan
      • Bever
      • La Punt Chamues-ch
      • Madulain
      • Zuoz
      • S-chanf
      • Chinuos-chel Brail
    • Inn(Lower Engadine)
      • Ramosch
      • Sur Tasna
      • Suot Tasna
      • Val Müstair
  • Val Poschiavo
  • Val Bregaglia
  • Val Mustair

Talk

The main language in the canton is German. Other official languages are Italian and Rumantsch (Rhaeto-Romanian), a very rare and ancient language that is derived from Latin. You should be able to manage with English, though German can definitely be useful. If you are considering to be in Switzerland for a longer time in any case, get a German phrasebook. Nearly everyone in Grisons speaks German.

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Source material

Up to date as of January 22, 2010
(Redirected to The Inn article)

From Wikisource

The Inn
by Guy de Maupassant (unknown translator)

Resembling in appearance all the wooden hostelries of the High Alps situated at the foot of glaciers in the barren rocky gorges that intersect the summits of the mountains, the Inn of Schwarenbach serves as a resting place for travellers crossing the Gemini Pass.

It remains open for six months in the year and is inhabited by the family of Jean Hauser; then, as soon as the snow begins to fall and to fill the valley so as to make the road down to Loeche impassable, the father and his three sons go away and leave the house in charge of the old guide, Gaspard Hari, with the young guide, Ulrich Kunsi, and Sam, the great mountain dog.

The two men and the dog remain till the spring in their snowy prison, with nothing before their eyes except the immense white slopes of the Balmhorn, surrounded by light, glistening summits, and are shut in, blocked up and buried by the snow which rises around them and which envelops, binds and crushes the little house, which lies piled on the roof, covering the windows and blocking up the door.

It was the day on which the Hauser family were going to return to Loeche, as winter was approaching, and the descent was becoming dangerous. Three mules started first, laden with baggage and led by the three sons. Then the mother, Jeanne Hauser, and her daughter Louise mounted a fourth mule and set off in their turn and the father followed them, accompanied by the two men in charge, who were to escort the family as far as the brow of the descent. First of all they passed round the small lake, which was now frozen over, at the bottom of the mass of rocks which stretched in front of the inn, and then they followed the valley, which was dominated on all sides by the snow-covered summits.

A ray of sunlight fell into that little white, glistening, frozen desert and illuminated it with a cold and dazzling flame. No living thing appeared among this ocean of mountains. There was no motion in this immeasurable solitude and no noise disturbed the profound silence.

By degrees the young guide, Ulrich Kunsi, a tall, long-legged Swiss, left old man Hauser and old Gaspard behind, in order to catch up the mule which bore the two women. The younger one looked at him as he approached and appeared to be calling him with her sad eyes. She was a young, fairhaired little peasant girl, whose milk-white cheeks and pale hair looked as if they had lost their color by their long abode amid the ice. When he had got up to the animal she was riding he put his hand on the crupper and relaxed his speed. Mother Hauser began to talk to him, enumerating with the minutest details all that he would have to attend to during the winter. It was the first time that he was going to stay up there, while old Hari had already spent fourteen winters amid the snow, at the inn of Schwarenbach.

Ulrich Kunsi listened, without appearing to understand and looked incessantly at the girl. From time to time he replied: "Yes, Madame Hauser," but his thoughts seemed far away and his calm features remained unmoved.

They reached Lake Daube, whose broad, frozen surface extended to the end of the valley. On the right one saw the black, pointed, rocky summits of the Daubenhorn beside the enormous moraines of the Lommern glacier, above which rose the Wildstrubel. As they approached the Gemmi pass, where the descent of Loeche begins, they suddenly beheld the immense horizon of the Alps of the Valais, from which the broad, deep valley of the Rhone separated them.

In the distance there was a group of white, unequal, flat, or pointed mountain summits, which glistened in the sun; the Mischabel with its two peaks, the huge group of the Weisshorn, the heavy Brunegghorn, the lofty and formidable pyramid of Mount Cervin, that slayer of men, and the Dent-Blanche, that monstrous coquette.

Then beneath them, in a tremendous hole, at the bottom of a terrific abyss, they perceived Loeche, where houses looked as grains of sand which had been thrown into that enormous crevice that is ended and closed by the Gemmi and which opens, down below, on the Rhone.

The mule stopped at the edge of the path, which winds and turns continually, doubling backward, then, fantastically and strangely, along the side of the mountain as far as the almost invisible little village at its feet. The women jumped into the snow and the two old men joined them. "Well," father Hauser said, "good-by, and keep up your spirits till next year, my friends," and old Hari replied: "Till next year."

They embraced each other and then Madame Hauser in her turn offered her cheek, and the girl did the same.

When Ulrich Kunsi's turn came, he whispered in Louise's ear, "Do not forget those up yonder," and she replied, "No," in such a low voice that he guessed what she had said without hearing it. "Well, adieu," Jean Hauser repeated, "and don't fall ill." And going before the two women, he commenced the descent, and soon all three disappeared at the first turn in the road, while the two men returned to the inn at Schwarenbach.

They walked slowly, side by side, without speaking. It was over, and they would be alone together for four or five months. Then Gaspard Hari began to relate his life last winter. He had remained with Michael Canol, who was too old now to stand it, for an accident might happen during that long solitude. They had not been dull, however; the only thing was to make up one's mind to it from the first, and in the end one would find plenty of distraction, games and other means of whiling away the time.

Ulrich Kunsi listened to him with his eyes on the ground, for in his thoughts he was following those who were descending to the village. They soon came in sight of the inn, which was, however, scarcely visible, so small did it look, a black speck at the foot of that enormous billow of snow, and when they opened the door Sam, the great curly dog, began to romp round them.

"Come, my boy," old Gaspard said, "we have no women now, so we must get our own dinner ready. Go and peel the potatoes." And they both sat down on wooden stools and began to prepare the soup.

The next morning seemed very long to Kunsi. Old Hari smoked and spat on the hearth, while the young man looked out of the window at the snow-covered mountain opposite the house.

In the afternoon he went out, and going over yesterday's ground again, he looked for the traces of the mule that had carried the two women. Then when he had reached the Gemmi Pass, he laid himself down on his stomach and looked at Loeche.

The village, in its rocky pit, was not yet buried under the snow, from which it was sheltered by the pine woods which protected it on all sides. Its low houses looked like paving stones in a large meadow from above. Hauser's little daughter was there now in one of those gray-colored houses. In which? Ulrich Kunsi was too far away to be able to make them out separately. How he would have liked to go down while he was yet able!

But the sun had disappeared behind the lofty crest of the Wildstrubel and the young man returned to the chalet. Daddy Hari was smoking, and when he saw his mate come in he proposed a game of cards to him, and they sat down opposite each other, on either side of the table. They played for a long time a simple game called brisque and then they had supper and went to bed.

The following days were like the first, bright and cold, without any fresh snow. Old Gaspard spent his afternoons in watching the eagles and other rare birds which ventured on those frozen heights, while Ulrich returned regularly to the Gemmi Pass to look at the village. Then they played cards, dice or dominoes and lost and won a trifle, just to create an interest in the game.

One morning Hari, who was up first, called his companion. A moving, deep and light cloud of white spray was falling on them noiselessly and was by degrees burying them under a thick, heavy coverlet of foam. That lasted four days and four nights. It was necessary to free the door and the windows, to dig out a passage and to cut steps to get over this frozen powder, which a twelve hours' frost had made as hard as the granite of the moraines.

They lived like prisoners and did not venture outside their abode. They had divided their duties, which they performed regularly. Ulrich Kunsi undertook the scouring, washing and everything that belonged to cleanliness. He also chopped up the wood while Gaspard Hari did the cooking and attended to the fire. Their regular and monotonous work was interrupted by long games at cards or dice, and they never quarrelled, but were always calm and placid. They were never seen impatient or ill-humored, nor did they ever use hard words, for they had laid in a stock of patience for their wintering on the top of the mountain.

Sometimes old Gaspard took his rifle and went after chamois, and occasionally he killed one. Then there was a feast in the inn at Schwarenbach and they revelled in fresh meat. One morning he went out as usual. The thermometer outside marked eighteen degrees of frost, and as the sun had not yet risen, the hunter hoped to surprise the animals at the approaches to the Wildstrubel, and Ulrich, being alone, remained in bed until ten o'clock. He was of a sleepy nature, but he would not have dared to give way like that to his inclination in the presence of the old guide, who was ever an early riser. He breakfasted leisurely with Sam, who also spent his days and nights in sleeping in front of the fire; then he felt low-spirited and even frightened at the solitude, and was-seized by a longing for his daily game of cards, as one is by the craving of a confirmed habit, and so he went out to meet his companion, who was to return at four o'clock.

The snow had levelled the whole deep valley, filled up the crevasses, obliterated all signs of the two lakes and covered the rocks, so that between the high summits there was nothing but an immense, white, regular, dazzling and frozen surface. For three weeks Ulrich had not been to the edge of the precipice from which he had looked down on the village, and he wanted to go there before climbing the slopes which led to Wildstrubel. Loeche was now also covered by the snow and the houses could scarcely be distinguished, covered as they were by that white cloak.

Then, turning to the right, he reached the Loemmern glacier. He went along with a mountaineer's long strides, striking the snow, which was as hard as a rock, with his iron-pointed stick, and with his piercing eyes he looked for the little black, moving speck in the distance, on that enormous, white expanse.

When he reached the end of the glacier he stopped and asked himself whether the old man had taken that road, and then he began to walk along the moraines with rapid and uneasy steps. The day was declining, the snow was assuming a rosy tint, and a dry, frozen wind blew in rough gusts over its crystal surface. Ulrich uttered a long, shrill, vibrating call. His voice sped through the deathlike silence in which the mountains were sleeping; it reached the distance, across profound and motionless waves of glacial foam, like the cry of a bird across the waves of the sea. Then it died away and nothing answered him.

He began to walk again. The sun had sunk yonder behind the mountain tops, which were still purple with the reflection from the sky, but the depths of the valley were becoming gray, and suddenly the young man felt frightened. It seemed to him as if the silence, the cold, the solitude, the winter death of these mountains were taking possession of him, were going to stop and to freeze his blood, to make his limbs grow stiff and to turn him into a motionless and frozen object, and he set off running, fleeing toward his dwelling. The old man, he thought, would have returned during his absence. He had taken another road; he would, no doubt, be sitting before the fire, with a dead chamois at his feet. He soon came in sight of the inn, but no smoke rose from it. Ulrich walked faster and opened the door. Sam ran up to him to greet him, but Gaspard Hari had not returned. Kunsi, in his alarm, turned round suddenly, as if he had expected to find his comrade hidden in a corner. Then he relighted the fire and made the soup, hoping every moment to see the old man come in. From time to time he went out to see if he were not coming. It was quite night now, that wan, livid night of the mountains, lighted by a thin, yellow crescent moon, just disappearing behind the mountain tops.

Then the young man went in and sat down to warm his hands and feet, while he pictured to himself every possible accident. Gaspard might have broken a leg, have fallen into a crevasse, taken a false step and dislocated his ankle. And, perhaps, he was lying on the snow, overcome and stiff with the cold, in agony of mind, lost and, perhaps, shouting for help, calling with all his might in the silence of the night.. But where? The mountain was so vast, so rugged, so dangerous in places, especially at that time of the year, that it would have required ten or twenty guides to walk for a week in all directions to find a man in that immense space. Ulrich Kunsi, however, made up his mind to set out with Sam if Gaspard did not return by one in the morning, and he made his preparations.

He put provisions for two days into a bag, took his steel climbing iron, tied a long, thin, strong rope round his waist, and looked to see that his iron-shod stick and his axe, which served to cut steps in the ice, were in order. Then he waited. The fire was burning on the hearth, the great dog was snoring in front of it, and the clock was ticking, as regularly as a heart beating, in its resounding wooden case. He waited, with his ears on the alert for distant sounds, and he shivered when the wind blew against the roof and the walls. It struck twelve and he trembled: Then, frightened and shivering, he put some water on the fire, so that he might have some hot coffee before starting, and when the clock struck one he got up, woke Sam, opened the door and went off in the direction of the Wildstrubel. For five hours he mounted, scaling the rocks by means of his climbing irons, cutting into the ice, advancing continually, and occasionally hauling up the dog, who remained below at the foot of some slope that was too steep for him, by means of the rope. It was about six o'clock when he reached one of the summits to which old Gaspard often came after chamois, and he waited till it should be daylight.

The sky was growing pale overhead, and a strange light, springing nobody could tell whence, suddenly illuminated the immense ocean of pale mountain summits, which extended for a hundred leagues around him. One might have said that this vague brightness arose from the snow itself and spread abroad in space. By degrees the highest distant summits assumed a delicate, pink flesh color, and the red sun appeared behind the ponderous giants of the Bernese Alps.

Ulrich Kunsi set off again, walking like a hunter, bent over, looking for tracks, and saying to his dog: "Seek, old fellow, seek!"

He was descending the mountain now, scanning the depths closely, and from time to time shouting, uttering aloud, prolonged cry, which soon died away in that silent vastness. Then he put his ear to the ground to listen. He thought he could distinguish a voice, and he began to run and shouted again, but he heard nothing more and sat down, exhausted and in despair. Toward midday he breakfasted and gave Sam, who was as tired as himself, something to eat also, and then he recommenced his search.

When evening came he was still walking, and he had walked more than thirty miles over the mountains. As he was too far away to return home and too tired to drag himself along any further, he dug a hole in the snow and crouched in it with his dog under a blanket which he had brought with him. And the man and the dog lay side by side, trying to keep warm, but frozen to the marrow nevertheless. Ulrich scarcely slept, his mind haunted by visions and his limbs shaking with cold.

Day was breaking when he got up. His legs were as stiff as iron bars and his spirits so low that he was ready to cry with anguish, while his heart was beating so that he almost fell over with agitation, when he thought he heard a noise.

Suddenly he imagined that he also was going to die of cold in the midst of this vast solitude, and the terror of such a death roused his energies and gave him renewed vigor. He was descending toward the inn, falling down and getting up again, and followed at a distance by Sam, who was limping on three legs, and they did not reach Schwarenbach until four o'clock in the afternoon. The house was empty and the young man made a fire, had something to eat and went to sleep, so worn out that he did not think of anything more.

He slept for a long time, for a very long time, an irresistible sleep. But suddenly a voice, a cry, a name, "Ulrich!" aroused him from his profound torpor and made him sit up in bed. Had he been dreaming? Was it one of those strange appeals which cross the dreams of disquieted minds? No, he heard it still, that reverberating cry-which had entered his ears and remained in his flesh-to the tips of his sinewy fingers. Certainly somebody had cried out and called "Ulrich!" There was somebody there near the house, there could be no doubt of that, and he opened the door and shouted, "Is it you, Gaspard?" with all the strength of his lungs. But there was no reply, no murmur, no groan, nothing. It was quite dark and the snow looked wan.

The wind had risen, that icy wind that cracks the rocks and leaves nothing alive on those deserted heights, and it came in sudden gusts, which were more parching and more deadly than the burning wind of the desert, and again Ulrich shouted: "Gaspard! Gaspard! Gaspard." And then he waited again. Everything was silent on the mountain.

Then he shook with terror and with a bound he was inside the inn, when he shut and bolted the door, and then he fell into a chair trembling all over, for he felt certain that his comrade had called him at the moment he was expiring.

He was sure of that, as sure as one is of being alive or of eating a piece of bread. Old Gaspard Hari had been dying for two days and three nights somewhere, in some hole, in one of those deep, untrodden ravines whose whiteness is more sinister than subterranean darkness. He had been dying for two days and three nights and he had just then died, thinking of his comrade. His soul, almost before it was released, had taken its flight to the inn where Ulrich was sleeping, and it had called him by that terrible and mysterious power which the spirits of the dead have to haunt the living. That voiceless soul had cried to the worn-out soul of the sleeper; it had uttered its last farewell, or its reproach, or its curse on the man who had not searched carefully enough.

And Ulrich felt that it was there, quite close to him, behind the wall, behind the door which he had just fastened. It was wandering about, like a night bird which lightly touches a lighted window with his wings, and the terrified young man was ready to scream with horror. He wanted to run away, but did not dare to go out; he did not dare, and he should never dare to do it in the future, for that phantom would remain there day and night, round the inn, as long as the old man's body was not recovered and had not been deposited in the consecrated earth of a churchyard.

When it was daylight Kunsi recovered some of his courage at the return of the bright sun. He prepared his meal, gave his dog some food and then remained motionless on a chair, tortured at heart as he thought of the old man lying on the snow, and then, as soon as night once more covered the mountains, new terrors assailed him. He now walked up and down the dark kitchen, which was scarcely lighted by the flame of one candle, and he walked from one end of it to the other with great strides, listening, listening whether the terrible cry of the other night would again break the dreary silence outside. He felt himself alone, unhappy man, as no man had ever been alone before! He was alone in this immense desert of Snow, alone five thousand feet above the inhabited earth, above human habitation, above that stirring, noisy, palpitating life, alone under an icy sky! A mad longing impelled him to run away, no matter where, to get down to Loeche by flinging himself over the precipice; but he did not even dare to open the door, as he felt sure that the other, the dead man, would bar his road, so that he might not be obliged to remain up there alone:

Toward midnight, tired with walking, worn out by grief and fear, he at last fell into a doze in his chair, for he was afraid of his bed as one is of a haunted spot. But suddenly the strident cry of the other evening pierced his ears, and it was so shrill that Ulrich stretched out his arms to repulse the ghost, and he fell backward with his chair.

Sam, who was awakened by the noise, began to howl as frightened dogs do howl, and he walked all about the house trying to find out where the danger came from. When he got to the door, he sniffed beneath it, smelling vigorously, with his coat bristling and his tail stiff, while he growled angrily. Kunsi, who was terrified, jumped up, and, holding his chair by one leg, he cried: "Don't come in, don't come in, or I shall kill you." And the dog, excited by this threat, barked angrily at that invisible enemy who defied his master's voice. By degrees, however, he quieted down and came back and stretched himself in front of the fire, but he was uneasy and kept his head up and growled between his teeth.

Ulrich, in turn, recovered his senses, but as he felt faint with terror, he went and got a bottle of brandy out of the sideboard, and he drank off several glasses, one after anther, at a gulp. His ideas became vague, his courage revived and a feverish glow ran through his veins.

He ate scarcely anything the next day and limited himself to alcohol, and so he lived for several days, like a drunken brute. As soon as he thought of Gaspard Hari, he began to drink again, and went on drinking until he fell to the ground, overcome by intoxication. And there he remained lying on his face, dead drunk, his limbs benumbed, and snoring loudly. But scarcely had he digested the maddening and burning liquor than the same cry, "Ulrich!" woke him like a bullet piercing his brain, and he got up, still staggering, stretching out his hands to save himself from falling, and calling to Sam to help him. And the dog, who appeared to be going mad like his master, rushed to the door, scratched it with his claws and gnawed it with his long white teeth, while the young man, with his head thrown back drank the brandy in draughts, as if it had been cold water, so that it might by and by send his thoughts, his frantic terror, and his memory to sleep again.

In three weeks he had consumed all his stock of ardent spirits. But his continual drunkenness only lulled his terror, which awoke more furiously than ever as soon as it was impossible for him to calm it. His fixed idea then, which had been intensified by a month of drunkenness, and which was continually increasing in his absolute solitude, penetrated him like a gimlet. He now walked about the house like a wild beast in its cage, putting his ear to the door to listen if the other were there and defying him through the wall. Then, as soon as he dozed, overcome by fatigue, he heard the voice which made him leap to his feet.

At last one night, as cowards do when driven to extremities, he sprang to the door and opened it, to see who was calling him and to force him to keep quiet, but such a gust of cold wind blew into his face that it chilled him to the bone, and he closed and bolted the door again immediately, without noticing that Sam had rushed out. Then, as he was shivering with cold, he threw some wood on the fire and sat down in front of it to warm himself, but suddenly he started, for somebody was scratching at the wall and crying. In desperation he called out: "Go away!" but was answered by another long, sorrowful wail.

Then all his remaining senses forsook him from sheer fright. He repeated: "Go away!" and turned round to try to find some corner in which to hide, while the other person went round the house still crying and rubbing against the wall. Ulrich went to the oak sideboard, which was full of plates and dishes and of provisions, and lifting it up with superhuman strength, he dragged it to the door, so as to form a barricade. Then piling up all the rest of the furniture, the mattresses, palliasses and chairs, he stopped up the windows as one does when assailed by an enemy.

But the person outside now uttered long, plaintive, mournful groans, to which the young man replied by similar groans, and thus days and nights passed without their ceasing to howl at each other. The one was continually walking round the house and scraped the walls with his nails so vigorously that it seemed as if he wished to destroy them, while the other, inside, followed all his movements, stooping down and holding his ear to the walls and replying to all his appeals with terrible cries. One evening, however, Ulrich heard nothing more, and he sat down, so overcome by fatigue, that he went to sleep immediately and awoke in the morning without a thought, without any recollection of what had happened, just as if his head had been emptied during his heavy sleep, but he felt hungry, and he ate.

The winter was over and the Gemmi Pass was practicable again, so the Hauser family started off to return to their inn. As soon as they had reached the top of the ascent the women mounted their mule and spoke about the two men whom they would meet again shortly. They were, indeed, rather surprised that neither of them had come down a few days before, as soon as the road was open, in order to tell them all about their long winter sojourn. At last, however, they saw the inn, still covered with snow, like a quilt. The door and the window were closed, but a little smoke was coming out of the chimney, which reassured old Hauser. On going up to the door, however, he saw the skeleton of an animal which had been torn to pieces by the eagles, a large skeleton lying on its side.

They all looked close at it and the mother said:

"That must be Sam," and then she shouted: "Hi, Gaspard!" A cry from the interior of the house answered her and a sharp cry that one might have thought some animal had uttered it. Old Hauser repeated, "Hi, Gaspard!" and they heard another cry similar to the first.

Then the three men, the father and the two sons, tried to open the door, but it resisted their efforts. From the empty cow-stall they took a beam to serve as a battering-ram and hurled it against the door with all their might. The wood gave way and the boards flew into splinters. Then the house was shaken by a loud voice, and inside, behind the side board which was overturned, they saw a man standing upright, with his hair falling on his shoulders and a beard descending to his breast, with shining eyes, and nothing but rags to cover him. They did not recognize him, but Louise Hauser exclaimed:

"It is Ulrich, mother." And her mother declared that it was Ulrich, although his hair was white.

He allowed them to go up to him and to touch him, but he did not reply to any of their questions, and they were obliged to take him to Loeche, where the doctors found that he was mad, and nobody ever found out what had become of his companion.

Little Louise Hauser nearly died that summer of decline, which the physicians attributed to the cold air of the mountains.

PD-icon.svg This work published before January 1, 1923 is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.

1911 encyclopedia

Up to date as of January 14, 2010

From LoveToKnow 1911

INN and Innkeeper. An inn is a house where travellers are fed and lodged for reward. A distinction has been drawn between tavern, inn and hotel, the tavern supplying food and drink, the hotel lodging, the inn both; but this is fanciful. " Hotel " now means "inn," and " inn " is often applied to a mere public-house, whilst " tavern " is less used. " Inn," still the legal and best, as it is the oldest, is a form of the word " in " or " within." This sense is retained in the case of the English legal societies still known as Inns Of Court. In the Bible " inn " means " lodging-place for the night." Hospitality has always been a sacred duty in the East. The pilgrim or the traveller claims it as a right. But some routes were crowded, as that from Bagdad to Babylon. On these, khans (in or near a town) and caravanserais (in waste places) were erected at the expense of the benevolent. They consisted of a square building surrounded by a high wall; on the roof there was a terrace and over the gateway a tower; inside, was a large court surrounded by compartments in which was some rude provision for the animals and baggage of the traveller as well as for himself. The latter purchased his own food where he chose, and had to "do for himself." In some such place Jesus was born. Tavern is mentioned once in Scripture (Acts xxviii. i 5) where it is said the brethren from Rome met Paul at "the Three Taverns." This was a station on the Appian Way, referred to also in Cicero's Letters (Ad Att. ii. 12). So, in modern London, stations are called " Elephant and Castle," or " Bricklayers' Arms," from adjacent houses of entertainment. Among the Greeks inns and innkeepers were held in low repute. The houses were bad and those who kept them had a bad name. A self-respecting Greek entered them as seldom as possible; if he travelled he relied on the hospitality of friends. In Rome under the emperors something akin to the modern inn grew up. There is, however, scarcely any mention of such institutions in the capital as distinguished from mere wine-shops or eating-houses. Ambassadors were lodged in apartments at the expense of the state. But along the great roads that radiated from Rome there were inns. Horace's account of his journey to Brundisium (Sat. i. 5), that brilliant picture of contemporary travel, tells us of their existence, and the very name of the Three Taverns shows that there was sufficient custom to support a knot of these institutions at one place. Under the Roman law, the innkeeper was answerable for the property of his guests unless the damage was due to damnum fatale or vis major, in modern language the act of God or the king's enemies. He was also liable for damage done by his servant or his slave or other inhabitant of the house.

In the middle ages hospitality was still regarded as a duty, and provision for travellers was regularly made in the monasteries. People of rank were admitted to the house itself, others sought the guest-chamber, which sometimes stood (as at Battle Abbey) outside the precincts. It consisted of a hall, round which were sleeping-rooms, though the floor of the hall itself was often utilized. Again, hospitality was rarely denied at the castle or country house. The knight supped with his host at the dais or upper part of the great hall, and retired with him into his own apartment. His followers, or the meaner strangers, sat lower down at meat, and after the tables had been removed stretched themselves to rest upon the floor. In desolate parts hospices were erected for the accommodation of pilgrims. Such existed in the Alps and on all the great roads to the Holy Land or to famous shrines, notably to that of Canterbury. The still impressive remains of the Travellers' Hospital at Maidstone, founded by Archbishop Boniface in 1260, give an idea of the extent of such places. The mention of Canterbury recalls two inns celebrated by Chaucer. The pilgrims started from the " Tabard " at Southwark under the charge of Harry Baily the host, and they put up at the " Checquers of the Hope," in Mercery Lane, Canterbury. It is easy to infer that, as time went on, the meagre hospitality of the monastery or the hospice was not sufficient for an increasing middle class, and that the want was met by the development of the mere ale-house into the inn. The " ale-house," to give it the old English name, was always in evidence, and even in pre-Reformation days was a favourite subject for the satirist. In Langland's Piers the Plowman and in Skelton's Elynour Rummynge we have contemporary pictures of ale-houses of the 14th and 16th centuries, but the Tabard is quite a modern inn, with a table d'hôte supper, a sign, a landlord (" right a mery man ") and a reckoning!

It has been conjectured (Larwood and Hotten, History of Signboards, 1874) that the inn sign was taken or imitated from that displayed on the town houses or inns of noblemen and prelates. The innkeeper alone of tradesmen retains his individual sign. The inn shared with the tavern the long projecting pole garnished with branches. These poles had become of such inordinate length in London that in 1375 they were restricted to 7 ft. But the inn of those times was still a simple affair. In each room there were several beds, the price of which the prudent traveller inquired beforehand. Extortion was frequent, though it was forbidden by a statute of Edward III. The fare was simple; bread, meat and beer, with fish on Fridays. The tavern sentiment is strong in Elizabethan literature. The " Boar's Head " in Eastcheap is inseparably connected with Sir John Falstaff and Dame Quickly. " Shall I not take mine ease in mine Inn? " (1 Henry IV., Act iii. sc. 3) is well-nigh the most famous word of the famous knight. A passage in Holinshed's Chronicle (1587, i. 246) explains the inner meaning of this. He assures us that the inns of England are not as those of other lands. Abroad the guest is under the tyranny of the host, but in England your inn is as your own house; in your chamber you can do what you will, and the host is rather your servant than your master. The" Mermaid "in Bread Street is associated with the memory of many wits and poets - Raleigh, Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, Ben Jonson - who frequented it and praised it.

Shenstone's lines as to " the warmest welcome at an inn " vent a common but rather cheap cynicism. Doctor Johnson was a great frequenter of inns and was outspoken in praise and blame. In the time immediately preceding railways the inn, which was also a post-house where the public coach as well as that of the private traveller changed horses, was a place of much importance. We have it presented over and over again in the pages of Dickens. The " Maypole " in Barnaby Rudge may be singled out for mention; it survives at Chigwell, Essex, as the " King's Head." The effect of railways was to multiply hotels in great centres and gradually increase their size till we have the huge structures so plentiful to-day. The bicycle and later the motor car, through the enormous traffic they caused on the country roads, have restored the old wayside inns to more than their former prosperity.

In Scotland a statute (1424) of James I. ordained inns for man and beast, with food and drink at reasonable prices, in each borough, and a subsequent act prohibited lodging in private houses in places where there were inns, under a penalty of 40s. But for centuries the Scots inn was a poor affair. The Clachan of Aberfoyle in Rob Roy, kept by the widow MacAlpine, was probably typical. In St Ronan's Well Scott gives the more pleasing picture of the Cleikum Inn, kept by the delightful Meg Dods, and mention should be made of St Mary's Cottage, with its hostess Tibby Shiels, the scene of one of the Noctes Ambrosianae, with memories not merely of Scott but of Christopher North and the Ettrick Shepherd. Burns had much to do with inns and taverns. If Poosie Nancie's, where the Jolly Beggars held wild revel, is long vanished, the Globe at Dumfries still exists, a fair sample of an inn of the period. As late as 1841 Dickens, writing to John Foster during his first visit to Scotland, describes the Highland inns as very poor affairs, " a mere knot of little outhouses " he says of one; and even in Queen Victoria's Leaves from the Journal of Our Life in the Highlands the inn is described as invariably small and unassuming. Thus the development of hotels in Scotland did not begin much before the middle of the 19th century.

In America the first hotel mentioned in New York is " Kriger's Tavern " about 1642, replaced in 1703 by the " King's Arms." When the town came to be English a proclamation was issued regulating the inns. Meals were not to cost more than 8d. or beer 2d. per quart.

Law Relating to Innkeepers

Whether any special building is an inn is a question of fact. A temperance hotel is an inn, but a mere public-house is not. An innkeeper is bound to receive, lodge and feed travellers if he has accommodation, if they are able and willing to pay, and are not obviously objectionable. If he refuse he is liable at common law to indictment, or an action will lie against him at the suit of the would-be guest. Under the Army Act soldiers of all kinds maybe billeted on the innkeeper, even beyond his power to provide in his own house; he must find accommodation for them elsewhere. An innkeeper must keep the goods and chattels of his guest in safety, unless they are destroyed by the act of God or the king's enemies. Under this last the king's rebellious subjects are not included. He is not liable for goods stolen or destroyed by the companion of the guest or through the guest's own negligence. There are two theories as to the origin of this common law liability of the innkeeper: (1) it was a survival of the liability of the common trader, or (2) specially imposed from the nature of his calling. Old English law held him to some extent suspect. The traveller amongst strangers seemed forlorn and unprotected, and conspiracy with thieves was dreaded. In modern times the landlord's responsibilities were cut down by the Innkeepers Liability Act 1863. He is not liable (save for horses and other live animals with their gear and carriages) to a greater extent than X30, unless the loss is caused by the default or neglect of himself or his servants, or the goods have been formally deposited with him. He must conspicuously exhibit a copy of the material parts of the act. The innkeeper may contract himself out of his common law obligation, and, apart from negligence, he is not liable for injury to the person or clothes of his guest. In return for these responsibilities the law gives him a lien over his guest's goods till his bill be paid. This is a particular and not a general lien. It attaches only to the special goods brought by the guest to the inn, and housed by the innkeeper with him. When several guests go together, the lien extends to all their goods. The innkeeper is only bound to take ordinary care of goods thus held, but he cannot use them or charge for their house-room. By the custom of London and Exeter, " when a horse eats out the price of his head," namely, when the cost of keep exceeds value, the host may have him as his own. By the Innkeepers Act 1878, if goods have been kept for six weeks they may be advertised and then sold after the interval of a month. Although an advertisement in a_London paper is directed, this act (it would seem) applies to Scotland (J.A.Fleming, in Green's Encyclopaedia of the Law of Scotland, vi. 363). In that country the law is generally the same as in England, though it has been held that the innkeeper is not responsible for loss by accidental fire. Nor is his refusal to receive a guest a criminal offence. In the United States the common law follows that of England, though laws of the various states have diminished the liability of the innkeeper in much the same fashion as in England. Innkeepers as retailers of intoxicating liquors are subject to the provisions of the Licensing Laws.

See Angus, Bible Handbook (new ed., 1904); Beckmann's Inventions, tr. by Johnson (1846); Jusserand, Les Anglais au moyen age (1884.); Liebenau, Das Gasthofand Wirtshauswesen der Schweiz in iilterer Zeit (1891); Kempt, Convivial Caledonia (1893); F. W. Hackwood, Inns, Ales and Drinking Customs of Old England (1909); Jelf and Hurst, The Law of Innkeepers (1904). English and Roman law are compared in Pymar's Law of Innkeepers (1892). For Scots law, see Bell's Principles. An American treatise is S. H. Wandell, Law of Inns, Hotels and Boarding Houses (1888). (F. WA.)


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Wiktionary

Up to date as of January 15, 2010
(Redirected to inn article)

Definition from Wiktionary, a free dictionary

Contents

English

Etymology

Old English inn.

Pronunciation

Noun

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Wikipedia

Singular
inn

Plural
inns

inn (plural inns)

  1. Any establishment where travellers can procure lodging, food, and drink.
  2. A tavern.

Synonyms

Translations

See also

Anagrams

  • Anagrams of inn
  • NNI

Icelandic

Adverb

inn

  1. in, inside
    Hvenær komumst við inn?
    When can we get inside?

Derived terms


Norwegian

Adverb

inn

  1. in

Old English

Noun

inn n

  1. inn

Bible wiki

Up to date as of January 23, 2010

From BibleWiki

in the modern sense, unknown in the East. The khans or caravanserais, which correspond to the European inn, are not alluded to in the Old Testament. The "inn" mentioned in Ex 4:24 was just the halting-place of the caravan. In later times khans were erected for the accommodation of travellers. In Lk 2:7 the word there so rendered denotes a place for loosing the beasts of their burdens. It is rendered "guest-chamber" in Mk 14:14 and Lk 22:11. In Lk 10:34 the word so rendered is different. That inn had an "inn-keeper," who attended to the wants of travellers.

This entry includes text from Easton's Bible Dictionary, 1897.

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