my fire so naturally as the new railway-house of these times near the
dismal country station; with nothing particular on draught but cold air
and damp, nothing worth mentioning in the larder but new mortar, and no
business doing beyond a conceited affectation of luggage in the hall?
Then I came to the Inns of Paris, with the pretty apartment of four
pieces up one hundred and seventy-five waxed stairs, the privilege of
ringing the bell all day long without influencing anybody's mind or body
but your own, and the not-too-much-for-dinner, considering the price.
Next to the provincial Inns of France, with the great church-tower rising
above the courtyard, the horse-bells jingling merrily up and down the
street beyond, and the clocks of all descriptions in all the rooms, which
are never right, unless taken at the precise minute when, by getting
exactly twelve hours too fast or too slow, they unintentionally become
so. Away I went, next, to the lesser roadside Inns of Italy; where all
the dirty clothes in the house (not in wear) are always lying in your
anteroom; where the mosquitoes make a raisin pudding of your face in
summer, and the cold bites it blue in winter; where you get what you can,
and forget what you can't: where I should again like to be boiling my tea
in a pocket-handkerchief dumpling, for want of a teapot. So to the old
palace Inns and old monastery Inns, in towns and cities of the same
bright country; with their massive quadrangular staircases, whence you
may look from among clustering pillars high into the blue vault of
heaven; with their stately banqueting-rooms, and vast refectories; with
their labyrinths of ghostly bedchambers, and their glimpses into gorgeous
streets that have no appearance of reality or possibility. So to the
close little Inns of the Malaria districts, with their pale attendants,
and their peculiar smell of never letting in the air. So to the immense
fantastic Inns of Venice, with the cry of the gondolier below, as he
skims the corner; the grip of the watery odours on one particular little
bit of the bridge of your nose (which is never released while you stay