a
hide he must have! And yet not impervious; for unless he is bitten,
how is he to be able to warn others? No: on second thoughts, you will
perceive that he ought to have a very delicate skin. The monsters ought
to troop to him eagerly, and bite him instantaneously and freely, so
that he may be able to warn all future handbook buyers of their danger.
I fancy this man devoting himself to danger, to dirt, to bad dinners, to
sour wine, to damp beds, to midnight agonies, to extortionate bills. I
admire him, I thank him. Think of this champion, who devotes his
body for us--this dauntless gladiator going to do battle alone in the
darkness, with no other armor than a light helmet of cotton, and a
lorica of calico. I pity and honor him. Go, Spartacus! Go, devoted
man--to bleed, to groan, to suffer--and smile in silence as the wild
beasts assail thee!

How did I come into this talk? I protest it was the word inn set
me off--and here is one, the "Hotel de Belle Vue," at the Hague, as
comfortable, as handsome, as cheerful as any I ever took mine ease in.
And the Bavarian beer, my dear friend, how good and brisk and light it
is! Take another glass--it refreshes and does not stupefy--and then we
will sally out, and see the town and the park and the pictures.

The prettiest little brick city, the pleasantest little park to ride in,
the neatest comfortable people walking about, the canals not unsweet,
and busy and picturesque with old-world life. Rows upon rows of houses,
built with the neatest little bricks, with windows fresh painted, and
tall doors polished, and carved to a nicety. What a pleasant spacious
garden our inn has, all sparkling with autumn flowers and bedizened
with statues! At the end is a row of trees, and a summer-house, over the
canal, where you might go and smoke a pipe with Mynheer Van Dunck, and
quite cheerfully catch the ague. Yesterday, as we passed, they were
making hay, and stacking it in a barge which was lying by the meadow,
handy. Round about Kensington Palace there are houses, roofs, chimneys,
and bricks like these. I feel that a Dutchman is a man and a brother. It
is very funny to read the newspaper, one can understand it somehow. Sure
it is the neatest, gayest little city--scores and hundreds of mansions
looking like Cheyne Walk, or the ladies' schools about Chiswick and
Hackney.

LE GROS LOT.--To a few lucky men the chance befalls of reaching fame at
once, and (if it is of any profit morituro) ret