terror—­that sort of sensation which I should think going down in a diving-bell would give.  Suppose the apparatus goes wrong, and they don’t understand your signal to mount?  Suppose your matches miss fire when you wake; when you want them, when you will have to rise in half an hour, and do battle with the horrid enemy who crawls on you in the darkness?  I protest I never was more surprised than when I woke and beheld the light of dawn.  Indian birds and strange 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 a hide