look, together with their remarkable fairness of complexion, are very pleasing to the eye of an Englishman; and, with many, will bring back the thoughts of their nursery days.

The inhabitants, generally, look as if the busy world had left them behind in the race of life, and as if they were too slow to recover their lost ground. I was particularly struck with their late rising, and with the slow and measured manner of all their labour,― between the hours of five and six, on a July morning, I scarce encountered a soul, and few houses were open when I returned to mine. The sledges, which go about with burthens, are drawn by large powerful animals with full manes and long tails: they are shod in an uncouth manner, fitted only for a slow high walk, and they seem subdued by situation to an unhorselike tameness. On a market day there is a little more stir; some waggons are driven in at a trot, and you instantly recognize, in their forms, the vehicles which the old Dutch and Flemish mas

ters have made us all familiar with. I saw few beggars; and these not in rags, they seemed only to ask charity from those in the middle class, and their abord was rather a coax than a craving, and generally ventured on near the beer-house benches.

I should perhaps have doubted the existence of mirth in Rotterdam, if a boat, returning from the fair at Brill, had not passed under my windows the evening before I went away. They were "the happy low," and loudly happy; they danced with bent and lifted knees, and chins depressed; they sung out, and they drowned the softer tabor. Heads were thrust from every window, and the sympathy of good humour shone in all countenances as the groupe floated past, enacting their joy, and apparently rather delighted than disturbed by the public gaze. But the sounds of joy are few in this city: they certainly are not of a cheerful character in the Spiel Huis Straat; through which if you walk after dusk, you will see mean curtains hanging before many doors, and from the lights behind, and the vile

scraping of fiddles, and the discordant roar of Dutch sea-songs, you may know those wretched places, concerning which so many travellers have written, and not a few unfaithfully. I believe that they are the resorts of the very lowest class, and that (in Rotterdam) a Hollander of any respectability is never to be seen in them. If it had been possible, in the garb of a gentleman, to have ascertained their exact state, I should unhesitatingly have entered them; for the system is but the remnant of a cruel, and once general custom in Europe, no doubt imported from the East. In our older dramatists, the system of the old licensed brothels in London is spoken of as nearly the same, and the unhappy state of their enslaved inmates is not unfrequently alluded to.

In spite of the tame regularity of straight canals, and trees dotted in rows, there are many good views in Rotterdam. The Boom Quay is a noble street, commanding a fair prospect, and the houses are excellent, with large handsome windows of plate

glass. In many quarters, where you can take your stand so as to catch a point of view with the water, the house gables and their adorned tops, the white draw-bridges, the foliage of the trees en masse, and the stately tower of St. Lawrence rising above all, the effect is truly imposing.

The view from the top of this tower is also a fine thing: the eye ranges over a vast tract of flooded country,—over green flats, canals, dyke roads, and avenues of trees; and many towers and spires glitter in the distance.

The suburbs of Rotterdam are not remarkable, and the villas would find little favour in any eye save that of a retired skipper, or a pipe-loving burgomaster. The lanes here, and the smaller canals, are less cleanly, covered with a green scum, and the smell disagreeable.

The great square, or market-place, is adorned with a statue, which does honour to the citizens. The equestrian statue of a hero would seem ill placed in this still city of waters; a rough admiral, or a rich merchant, are the only characters whose

apotheosis you would look for in such a spot. The figure of Erasmus in bronze, in the cap and robe of an ecclesiastic, and a scholar with a book open in his hand, is the fine and peaceful-looking ornament of which I speak.

Some of the hot hours of noon may be pleasantly passed in looking at the pictures of Baron Lockhorst. The collection is not large or fine, but picture-gazing is an amusement of which the true traveller seldom tires. Dutch paintings have a character of uncommon truth. I have observed that the rich and the great are generally partial to this school, which I fancy I can easily account for, and greatly to their credit. It would seem they desired to have before them faithful pictures of the enjoyments of low life, as if to assure themselves (could any of them need such assurance,) that they did not possess a monopoly of the means of happiness. Hence these endless repetitions of fairs and fireside scenes, and groups of boors smoking and drinking; of women cleaning, cook