A correspondent of the Daily News, who has been in
the Tyrol, seems to have been very unfortunate in his inns, and speaks with quite pathetic earnestness on the subject of the bread, the beds, and the feeding generally. Be recommends travellers to go with stores of tea, potted meat, brandy, and sago. As to the tea, he is right ; you get it very bad in any but the first inns; and wherever a teapot exists, which is not uncommon, it is a very simple matter to getboiling water poured -on it. But as for the meats and sago, it is all nonsense. You get-very tender poultry—small, indeed, but much better than the tough cocks which a little English inn so often produces if you ask for a fowl—everywhere, even if you can- not eat the veal, which is exceedingly good of its kind. The bread is usually very respectable, and as for sago, you would exhaust more strength in directions for its proper preparation than it would restore to your wasted -frame. As for the weak and disastrous advice to pocket little breads at any inn where you get them good, the issue of that is very simple,—an existence rendered insupportable by the slibris of antediluvian crumbs in your pocket, issuing from your letters, coming out with your pocket-handker- chief, fatiguing your senses for the rest of the journey. It renders life a wretched Sahara of crumb.
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