As we drove through the old city at night, how it swarmed and hummed with life! What a special clatter, crowd, and outcry there was in the Jewish quarter, where myriads of young ones were trotting about the fishy street! Why don't they have lamps? We passed by canals seeming so full that a pailful of water more would overflow the place.The laquais-de-place calls out the names of the buildings:
the town-hall, the cathedral, the arsenal, the synagogue, the statue of Erasmus.Get along! WE know the statue of Erasmus well enough.
We pass over drawbridges by canals where thousands of barges are at roost.At roost--at rest! Shall WE have rest in those bedrooms, those ancient lofty bedrooms, in that inn where we have to pay a florin for a pint of pa--psha! at the "New Bath Hotel" on the Boompjes? If this dreary edifice is the "New Bath," what must the Old Bath be like? As I feared to go to bed, I sat in the coffee-room as long as I might; but three young men were imparting their private adventures to each other with such freedom and liveliness that I felt I ought not to listen to their artless prattle.As Iput the light out, and felt the bedclothes and darkness overwhelm me, it was with an awful sense of 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? Iprotest 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), 60,000inhabitants.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 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.Ifancy 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.
