trees were visible on the ancient gilt hangings
of the lofty chamber, and through the windows the Boompjes and the ships
along the quay. We have all read of deserters being brought out, and
made to kneel, with their eyes bandaged, and hearing the word to "Fire"
given I declare I underwent all the terrors of execution that night, and
wonder how I ever escaped unwounded.

But if ever I go to the "Bath Hotel," Rotterdam, again, I am a Dutchman.
A guilder for a bottle of pale ale, and that bottle a pint! Ah! for
shame--for shame!

MINE EASE IN MINE INN.--Do you object to talk about inns? It always
seems to me to be very good talk. Walter Scott is full of inns. In "Don
Quixote" and "Gil Blas" there is plenty of inn-talk. Sterne, Fielding,
and Smollett constantly speak about them; and, in their travels, the
last two tot up the bill, and describe the dinner quite honestly; whilst
Mr. Sterne becomes sentimental over a cab, and weeps generous tears over
a donkey.

How I admire and wonder at the information in Murray's Handbooks--wonder
how it is got, and admire the travellers who get it. For instance, you
read: Amiens (please select your towns), 60,000 inhabitants. Hotels,
&c.--"Lion d'Or," good and clean. "Le Lion d'Argent," so so. "Le Lion
Noir," bad, dirty, and dear. Now say, there are three travellers--three
inn-inspectors, who are sent forth by Mr. Murray on a great commission,
and who stop at every inn in the world. The eldest goes to the "Lion
d'Or"--capital house, good table-d'hote, excellent wine, moderate
charges. The second commissioner tries the "Silver Lion"--tolerable
house, bed, dinner, bill and so forth. But fancy Commissioner No. 3--the
poor fag, doubtless, and boots of the party. He has to go to the "Lion
Noir." He knows he is to have a bad dinner--he eats it uncomplainingly.
He is to have bad wine. He swallows it, grinding his wretched teeth, and
aware that he will he unwell in consequence. He knows he is to have a
dirty bed, and what he is to expect there. He pops out the candle. He
sinks into those dingy sheets. He delivers over his body to the nightly
tormentors, he pays an exorbitant bill, and he writes down, "Lion Noir,
bad, dirty, dear." Next day the commission sets out for Arras, we will
say, and they begin again: "Le Cochon d'Or," "Le Cochon d'Argent," "Le
Cochon Noir"--and that is poor Boots's inn, of course. What a life that
poor man must lead! What horrors of dinners he has to go through! What