his beast, but because there is no coach-box;
the vehicle, it lumbers along on a sledge,
a dismounted cab, utterly wheelless; the
horse, poor quadruped, long-rib gridirons
upon his flanks, being full ripe for the
knacker. I mark that, as it moves along, the
driver casts from him adroitly a long line
with oiled rag attached, which passes under
the sledge, and has the effect of easing the
friction.

This notable conveyance is known as a
sleepkoets, and the present specimen, though
about as rusty and decayed an article as
could be, had certain affecting associations
connected with it; being, in a manner, the
last of all its tribe—a sort of Hackney Selkirk
or Selkirk Hackney. The benevolent and
those who can feel, may here bethink them of
certain memories associated with the last
days of the doomed hackney-coaches, and the
mournful aspect of the few decayed survivors
holding on desperately—wandering about,
hoping against all hope. To which sledging,
however, Hollanders have a strong leaning,
as I find all heavy goods, such as monster
hogsheads and the like, transported by
preference on sledges, each with a small keg in
front, pierced with many holes, through
which water is splashed forth at every motion
of the horse, thus lightening the friction.

Hurrying on, and striving to get clear of
this interminable Kalvat Straat, I come
suddenly upon one of the wooden drawbridges,
and upon an old red brick clock or Carillons
Tower, running up with many stories into
the favourite Black Dutch Steeple. In its
uppermost story I can make out whole files
of my old jangling enemies, ranged symmetrically
according to size. One side of the brick
tower flanks the street, the other rises up
frowningly from a great waste of green fluid
that laves its base with languid green waves,
upon whose surface float straws, scraps of
paper, bits of wood, ashes, hair, wool—
anything that good housewives find in their way
at home. This was, as it were, the Amsterdam
dogana, and here the prospect of bridge and
struggling water began. And here, too, was
I made sensible of that other enemy—he who
last night had only given stray hints of his
presence—but who now came boldly rising
from his green slime, and declared himself.
It was horrible, searching, penetrating,
sickening unto death!—never to leave me more.
Compared with that savour, the breath of
Cologne became pure frangipani, and the
Frankfort Ghetto a sweet spice-grove . Had
there been only a class or subdivision for
such an article at some of our late great
industrial exhibitions, the claims of this city
to a grand council medal might have been
respectfully submitted. Still, it is nothing
in its present shape—mere undeveloped power
—nothing to what it will be when the sun
is nigh in the heavens towards midday. For,
the weather has been sultry, and it may be
imagined what power for evil those hot
scorching rays must have, slowly stewing that
green compound, with such aid, too, as
certain barges now making way down the
dogana, may in their humble way afford.
Very diligently do the bargemen, like true
gondoliers, propel their boat with poles, two
at each side, stirring up a rich loamy
sediment which follows in their wake, and is
stewed up and duly fermented in its turn.

Looking over the bars of the drawbridge,
I find that the green water strays away
round the corner on the right; that it falls
back likewise in a sort of creek upon the
left; also, that it is fringed with long slim
houses, packed very close, and rising straight
from out of the green fluid. Some have a
door opening out conveniently on the green
fluid, with a neat little scaffolding supported
on a couple of stakes, where the proprietor
may come forth of an evening and inhale the
fragrance. Many are furnished with such
stages, and very often are the owners to
be seen taking their ease there.
Marvellous is this love of pestilential waters.
I go round the corner to the left, following
the edge of the dogana, and find the green
lake spreading out wider and wider, bounded
with more slim houses rising out of the
slough, some rickety and heeling over like
a Pisan structure, others with a smug gaudy
air, proud of their paint and gay colouring.
More straggle out on a promontory towards
the centre, greedily encroaching on the slimy
element. In the middle are gathered a clump
of masts and cordage, belonging to those
quaint, low-hulled luggers, with their gilt
vanes and streamers garnishing the masts—
graceful always in or out of a picture. Their
swelling bows and yellow varnished timbers
shine pleasantly in the sun. Opposite, are
little openings spanned with drawbridges,
which are entrances to other canals, long
watery lanes and alleys straggling off irregularly.
I can see, too, afar off, a long, light
bridge, supported on stakes, which looks
crazy enough, but which is, nevertheless, a
grand thoroughfare, and crowded with heavy
burdened sledges. Beyond that again, the
houses close in thickly in a sort of rabble
rout as it were—an irregular show with
jagged, zigzag outline. Beyond which, rise
up many more of those brick spires, with a
stray windmill or so hazily standing out
against the sky. This prospect, repeated
many times over, may be taken as a fair
sample of this noble Amsterdam town.

Taking, then, the first alley to the right,
through desperate resolve of getting free from
that pestilential dogana, I find myself utterly
lost in a long lane that has literally no turning,
and which loses itself finally in a sort of
slime—dark, narrow, and unwholesome.

Here is a long white building; green,
yellow, and every colour from damp; the
plaster stripped from its side as if from
scurvy, with a line of smurched and faded
characters setting forth that here of all