of the city's strong points, being beef cured
and otherwise prepared until it arrive at the
consistence of that costly wood alluded to.
Excellent as a relish, says Coolie, or Jan,
rather, for there is no reason in the world
why an unoffending fellow-creature should
be fitted with a name of such ill odour,
and exceedingly affected by all strangers.
Another of the city's strong points is lying
before me: a segment of Dutch cheese, very
strong—offensive, I may say at once—removed
promptly at my special request. There was
a whole squadron of night-mares lurking in
its hard soapy texture. The service I find
to be a coarse yellow ware, popular through
the country, and floated down per canal-
boat from Delft. In course of time, I come
to make discoveries:—that the bread is of
a coarse, greyish tint, and would take rank
in the British Islands as thirds or even
fourths;—that the butter has a fierce strength
and is of kin to the cheese, that it would
require nothing short of savage mountain
appetites to do that repast justice. I see, too,
that I am to have eggs of the country besides,
for a little porcelain egg-cup has been placed
on the table before me. With a sigh I open
the small tin snuff-box, which contains the
exact measure of tea for a single consumer,
and proceed to distil. Through inexperience
I all but upset the furnace; and, when on
the point of pouring out, discover that Jan
has forgotten such a thing as a tea-cup.
Quite uncivilised, these people, really—much
troubled in mind,—when suddenly I begin
to perceive how it is. The Iittle egg-cup!
In it lay the mystery. I laugh grimly and
enjoy the joke wonderfully, very much as
the Major Dalgetty did the notion of
employing bows and arrows in modern warfare.
As he laughed, however, the Major was
cruelly stricken by one of those missiles,—
and I had henceforth to do sore penance
by much weary replenishing of the egg-cup,
which was as near as possible about the
capacity of three thimbles.

This meal being thus unprofitably
dispatched, I next find myself standing under
the portal of the Grey-headed Nobleman,
meditating a plunge into the great Kalvat
Straat, regarded by its inhabitants with a
just pride and reverence—similarly confident
are New Yorkers on the score of their
Broadway, Dubliners on that of the great
Sackville Causeway, Berliners on that of
Unter den Linden. It really did appear to
me, as regarded width, pretty much of the
capability of the useful thoroughfare that
leads into Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, and is known
as Little Turnstile. Or, not to be too
nice, suppose I name at once doomed
Holywell Street, as approximating nearest in
aspect and complexion, only smoothly paved
—flagged rather—as though intended solely
for trottoir purposes. Here are all the city
folk hurrying by, with no risk of being run
down by cruel driver. For, only at long and
rare intervals does a vehicle pass that way,
at a sober family snail's pace—the quadruped
threading its way in easy familiarity among
the foot-passengers, rubbing shoulders with
them, and all but whispering, "By your
leave, Gossip;" here is no furious driving or
perilous crossing, but universal liberty,
equality, and the rest of it, for man and
beast.

A glance down that Holywell Street
elongation was good entertainment certainly
—remunerative too, for any trouble so taken. To
take first the houses—such bright, dazzling,
spick and span tenements were surely never
guttered together. The material, painted
brick that would stand good washing and
wholesome scrubbing down, dry-polishing,
scraping, burnishing, with any other cleansing
process that the heart of woman can
devise,—altogether the complexion of so
many great baby-houses. But alack! without
the roominess and vast accommodation of
those costly edifices; for your Dutch houses
are but thin attenuations, stretching away to
the heavens, with scarcely any sensible
breadth; long thin windows, or slits, rather
—three in a row usually—were only in keeping;
and I do protest that the space between
each window never on any pretence exceeded
half a cubit. How these structures contrive
to keep upon their feet, and avoid being
flattened up prematurely by each other's
weight, is only one other of the marvels of
this great city. However, here was at once
made manifest the whole secret of those
penitential galleries in the Grey-headed
Nobleman—the plain truth being, that every
rood of mother earth, or mother marsh,
rather, not only maintains its man, but is
found to be so precious, that burghers are
driven to build where room is cheap, and
accommodation unlimited. Therefore do they
hold by that old maxim of the Civil Law
which runs: "Cujus solum est, ejus est
usque ad cœlum." That is to say, The owner
of the soil may build thereon to the clouds,
even—may build Babel Tower, if he can
manage it.

The Saturday purification of their Amsterdam
homes becomes, after all, not quite so
Augean in character—the field of labour
being comparatively small. Which hebdomadal
washing is certainly a notable sight—
ingenious little force-pumps being brought and
set up straight in great tubs of water, with
all the little Dutch women, in washing
uniform, working the handles vigorously, as
though extinguishing a conflagration. Hissing
streams fly upward to the roofs, rattling
noisily on the window panes, reflecting
copious showers of spray upon the unsuspecting
stranger. More perilous to him is the
procedure of the thriftier housewife, whose
means cannot compass hydraulic power. She
may be seen stretching far from her window,
and, bowl in hand, deluging the wall on each
side. Her whole soul is in the work. She