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 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!