brawn, rich gravies, and animal juices. Saucer
eyes over again, fatuitous expression over
again, eternal chuckle over again. His wife
is my little Dutchwoman indeed, whom I am
glad to meet. Fresher and fairer than ever,
and fitted out gorgeously with a burnished
helm, a la Polytechuique (alluding, of course,
to the diver at that establishment).

The two children are awfully repulsive,
and would, to a certainty, have been exposed
on coming into the world, did that barbarous
fashion prevail in the country. They are
small walking Dutchmen, square-built, with
embryo underdone meat and gravies. One
has to be kept on my little Dutchwoman's
knee, to her infinite discomfort; he will persist
in rolling himself into perverse attitudes,
outraging the laws of propriety, by bringing his
garments over his head, pulling frightful faces
at his little brother, but at me principally,
whom he hereafter will strive secretly to prick
with a pin. Such play of feature in one so
young can scarcely be conceived, and recalled to
me the disastrous effects of a contest recorded
by Mr. Addison in his Spectator, where a
labouring man grinned through a horse-collar
with such force and originality, as to seriously
imperil the life of a lady looking on, who was
then in a more interesting state than her
normally interesting condition.

Before very long, my Dutch husband, who
has been looking round on the company, and
chuckling heartily without apparent motive,
looked round on me too, and chuckled with
even more satisfaction. I looked at him
pleasantly, not wishing to damp his spirits, and I
found he suddenly grew serious, and turned
his eyes away. Presently I looked again (he
was sitting on the bench near me), and found
that the saucer eyes were fixed on me once
more. A sound like gurgling of decanted wine
—he was laughing internally. He had the
fag end of a cigar between his fingers, nearly
burnt away. He turned his head thoughtfully
about, and looked wistfully at the fag
end of his cigar. " God help thee, Jack," I
said, falling into Mr. Sterne's manner in his
interview with his well-known ass; "thou
hast a bitter breakfast on't. 'Tis all bitterness
to thee, whatever life is to others." In
saying this, I pulled out a paper of them
which I had just bought, and (still carrying
out Mr. Sterne) offered him one.

More gurgling, as of decanted wine—
token that he was affected by this social act.
A meteorological observation, in vile Dutch,
on my side, which draws forth, after much
preparatory decanting, certain faint syllables,
which seemed to convey adhesion to my views.
From that, out my Dutchman grows to be
communicative; after a fashion of his own, bringing
forth his words at his own time and
convenience, with infinite labour and stertorous
effort. At every halt he fixes me uneasily
with the saucer eye, then decants small
quantities. In this way I am let into small
secrets connected with the private history of
my Dutchman; where he lives, what time
he rises in the morning, what are his meal
hours, what dishes he is most attached
to. All this time, my little Dutchwoman,
has been listening eagerly; filled with a
just pride at the manner in which her
husband can deport himself to strangers.
Only I fear she has over-much trouble
with the offspring on her knee, who still
persists in becoming lost to view beneath
his own garments. The older pair take a
feeble interest in me too, and take pride in
their son. "Those two," says my Dutchman
to me, with a motion of his cigar in the
direction, "those two are children of ours.
Fine? " He looked wistfully at me; and
again I thought of Mr. Sterne's ass. So I
gave him a macaroon—figuratively, that is—
in the shape of a nod and a smile. " There
are," adds my Dutchman, mysteriously,
"there are seven more of 'em at home."
Here prodigious decanting of wine. I make
an execrable attempt to felicitate him on his
good fortune, when he of a sudden, goes off
in a roar that makes the bench tremble.
"She," he says, motioning with his cigar, and
every instant in peril of suffocation, " she is
not of Losdun! No! No! " with more
laughter and more suffocation. " Would you
have her called Matilda? He-he!—Ho-ho-
ho! HO—O—O!"

I could scarcely see the joke. "Why
Matilda? " I ask. " Why Losdun? Does she
come of that village?"

"O, good! good! " answers my Dutchman.
"Hear, Vrou! The Herr knows not
of Matilda! Why, our Cornelius should tell
him of her."

Which was not likely, as the Cornelius
alluded to had suddenly shot himself out of
sight with a howl of despair.

"She had the largest family in the world,"
said my Dutchman, puffing slowly; " the
largest family in the world."

"It would be curious to see such a person,"
I answer.

"She was dead and buried before you and
I were born," he says, " about five hundred
years! She had three hundred and sixtyfive
children, all born on the same day, and
at the same hour!"

" You astonish me," I said. " It is
wonderful!"

"Ay," said he; "how they were
provided for when they grew up is a mystery to
me." Here he looked with a troubled air on
his wife, and the decanting became laborious.
"Only—only—they all died on the one day.
Praise be to the Lord!"

"A happy release," I added.

"You may say so," he said, sighing.
"They were all baptised by a bishop, in two
brass basins; and the boys were called John,
and the girls, Elizabeth. That's the story,
Vrou?"

"Yes, indeed," says my little Dutchwoman,
speaking now for the first time. " And tell