window of the decayed mail-coach.
Presently comes into view the first Windmill—
first of the great grinders, that toss their arms
in eternal gyration.

Supposing, then, that he has grown
weary of this staleness, and turns for a spell
to his travelling volume; and then looks forth
again, he will rub his eyes with wonder, for
it will seem as if the Berghem landscape
had been travelling on with him as he read,
tiling, trees, and all; save only that the
windmill element has grown on him
prodigiously. North and south are they now
crowded together, advancing on him like an
army of huge monsters. The traveller is like
enough to get cloyed with windmills: still, all
this while he is making progress along the
Spoorweg. Sharpe and Sons are taking him
past unhealthy bits of verdure with a stripped
mangy aspect, known to natives as polders or
reclaimed Dismal Swamps—past other canals,
reeled off interminably—past drowsy cattles
of the Cuyp pattern—past more red tiling—
past the Noah's Ark trees again—and past the
old-established original Dutchman. O, here
truly was Peter Stuyvesant redivivus, or
William the Testy, given up from their graves in
the old Dutch settlement, and coming forth to
stare lazily at the Spoorweg! For his face
was reddish-purple, and glistening as from
deep drinking, his cheeks hung down after
the manner of dewlaps, and his eyes were
twinklesome and saucerlike. Arrayed in a
cool linen coat was he, with pipe a yard long
in one hand and a cigar in the other,
contemplating the brave work of the Atlas
Works with a strange idiot grin. And so
on for many more leagues of monotony,
until the shadows begin to fall. And
finally, towards nine of the clock, lights
begin to flit by the window, and houses to
congregate abundantly, and windmills to
gather round in threatening force; all which
are symptoms that Amsterdam, the great
pile city, is at hand. Voyageurs are invited
to descend.

Instant signal for flash of lanterns, bustle,
Babel of tongues, and general confusion.
Here, are porters in blue wagoners' frocks,
hauling travellers' mails aside into dark
places. Everything here is Cimmerian, with
here and there a dull, dirty glimmering
overhead. Here, are gentry in would-
be uniform, assaulting the traveller as
he stands distraught upon the steps, with
dialect compounded mainly of oors and ooms,
and such open diphthongs. Who, failing with
that tongue, try him with barbarous French,
slipping from thence in rude, gritty German,
and finally relapsing into uncompromising
irascible English. They are touting, it seems,
for the Great Spoorweg Dienst, or railway slave,
which stands waiting yonder. The railway
slave I discover to be a huge omnibus which
takes travellers to their hotels; Amsterdam
hostelries lying all along the same line of
street. Just for one instant do I look forth
from the window, and can make out nothing
save certain white posts or pillars, with huge
arms and chains, together with other white
posts and chains a little beyond them, with
white posts and chains on the right and on
the left—draw-bridges unmistakeably—for
scarcely have we moved a single perch when
I find that we are being heaved upward
sensibly, with a hollow wooden rumble, and
then depressed. A few seconds more, and
the white posts and chains are flitting past
the window, and the woody rumble comes
once more and again and again, for some
thirty odd times. It is draw-bridge eternally,
and I can see, as we go up and down, the
dark waters underneath. Finally, we have
gotten into a long, narrow street, smoothly
paved or rather flagged—so narrow that it
seems to me I can lay my finger on the houses
as we go by,— and now asks the Conduktoor
where does Mynheer choose to be set down?
Ay! Where? that is the question—scarcely
thought on till that very instant. There was
famous treatment at the house of entertainment,
known as the Oude Doelen, or Old
Bull's Eye; likewise at the Nieuwe Doelen,.
or New Bull's Eye; where, note, that the
New Bull's Eye takes in sovereign princes
and persons of quality. About these Doelen
names there was a certain Hibernian smack
or savour, recalling strangely Larry of that
Ilk. Famous treatment too at the Low
Countries Inn—perhaps famous charges also.
But there was a caravanserai known as The
Grey-headed Nobleman,—which men, cunning
in dishes, had spoken of unctuously and
with mysterious whisper; where was said
to be caves of wine of surpassing quality;
also set down in the Livre Rouge, or Bed
Vade-mecum, as a quiet house. Yes, a quiet
house. Unobtrusive, unadvertising. Ancient
furniture of the Van Tromp era,—huge four-
posters, ancestors on the walls, mine host, of
the Stuyvesant pattern over again,—in fact,
I knew it as well as though I had been
sitting in one of the old long-backed chairs,
and not on the hard board-like cushion of
the Spoorweg Dienst. The Grey-headed
Nobleman then be it, I say to the Conduktoor.
Good. He is to be found in the Kalvat
Straat hard by.

We have halted. The Grey-headed Nobleman.
Where—up that blind alley? Yes.
Conduktoor can carry up the mails in about
a second. Will the Mynheer follow?
Mynheer gets out incontinently and pursues his
mails, now flying up the blind alley on
Conduktoor's shoulders. They are set down on
the threshold of a narrow Barbican doorway,
with a lamp, stopping the way effectually.
This is the Grey-headed Nobleman—and I
have caught a glimpse of his effigy over the
door. Someway I shrink from the Grey-
headed Nobleman and the general aspect
of his house. A long narrow passage,
white-washed, of the Poor House
Reformatory pattern, so contracted that an