—cynosure in chief. Already are my Dutch
folk at work, swilling slowly but surely. It is
Jan here, Jan there, Jan everywhere, benches
being dotted in all directions with a heavy
figure. To the right is improvised orchestra of
timbers newly hewn, garnished feebly with
a strip of the tawdry calico; it looks crazy
enough. There is, besides, an improvised
dancing pit, thrown together by means of
rough boards laid over the gravel, and rough
seats placed round, with a rougher shed overhead
by way of canopy. Lame enough these
accessories of the dance; the dancers being
tolerably certain of an overthrow from the
rough boards, or of being crushed flat by the
shed from overhead. It looks infinitely
precarious, that shed. A little to the rear is an
open field laid out as a race-course, where
there shall be presently infinite diversion.

More Dutch folk pouring in. The munificent
gentlemen purveying tickets, appear to
be horribly overworked. More Dutch folk
pouring in, all athirst, putting their mouths
(metaphorically of course) by a sort of
instinct to the spigot. Drink, drink! Jan,
Jan! on every side. No seats, no tables, no
bench to be had now. Jans take to a
running motion, setting down all variety of
drinks. I note a pink fluid brought in a
wineglass, together with a small measure of
pounded sugar. Sugar and pink fluid are
stirred together—result, a muddy compound,
most drinkable I am assured: charge,
two-pence. I note, too, a great squat black bottle
with no neck, on a tray, its consort a thin
shrunken flask, attended by a small measure of
the pounded sugar. It was the Dutch family
on a tray.

"What is that?" said Mrs. Johnson—
Swift's "Mrs. Johnson" — when they brought
her in a medicine bottle in her last illness.
"My apothecary's son?" This ridiculous
resemblance, says Doctor Swift, set us all
a-laughing.

So, too, I seem to see the Dutch family
type travelling about on a tray. The squat
black bottle is Selters, the attenuated flask
Rhine wine. Sugar as before, mix as before,
pay as before, rather more—say two shillings
—for the whole. But it does the family to
perfection.

I note other drinks. Bavarian beer out of
the stone jug; that being the natural place
of confinement, alack, for unruly beers as well
as for unruly mortals. Holland beer also out
of the stone jug, as being unruly also. French
wines in abundance. Sickly syrups—gaseous
draughts—fizzing here! pop there! smoke
everywhere!

But, hark! tuning in the orchestra. The
musicians are gathered together, big drum has
been hoisted to a convenient elevation. I am
informed that a true amateur will now hear
something worth his notice. "A celebrated
band, Mynheer—of extraordinary reputation"
(here action, with both arms out, as of
embracing the world)—"such finish—such
shading—such expression—such" (profound
shaking of head). "And the Maestro! the
Heer Direcktoor! a man of singular parts—
such control—such discipline—such "(more
shaking of head). "Hark! hark! silence,
pray, Messieurs! sit down in front! let us
listen! Jan! more schiedam here! more
schiedam, quick!"

I take my seat with the rest while the
music begins, and look out curiously for the
man of extraordinary reputation. Upon that
music, as discoursed by the Lincoln-greens,
what shall be the judgment? The programme
is of an ambitious order, truly; grand selection
from a grand opera; but the grand
opera, the Lincoln-greens, the music, everything
becomes as nothing taken with the
extraordinary man. He was an undying source
of wonder, of profound study, of infinite
delight, that man of extraordinary reputation!
I have never seen one to compare with him;
not even excepting the Monsieur Jullien.
That eminent bâton-wielder paled indeed his
ineffectual fires before him. This was, in
some sort, the order of his action:

The Lincoln-greens were gathered together
below, with contracted brows and eyes
steadily fixed on their music, blowing their
very souls out with a stern intensity, as being
men on whom lay an awful responsibility.
But the chief? He had placed himself on a
high form, exactly in the middle, without
desk, without music, without anything beyond
his little wand and the deep resources of his
genius. Methinks I see him now. How his
fat, corpulent, little person, buttoned close
within the Lincoln-green, balanced itself with
difficulty on the narrow form; how he kept
his arms eternally out like a cross; how he
imparted to them a wavy, encouraging
motion, a wooing up and down movement, as
who should say, "This way, my sweet music!
Lo! I shall draw the very soul out of you!"
How he described circles, turning on himself
as on a pivot; how his round red face lay at
one moment on his shoulder, and his eyes
closed, utterly overcome by the luscious
sweetness of the sounds; how a languishing
smile played upon his features, as though
such tones were altogether too much for this
world; how he was seen to crouch low, like
a tiger about to spring, at the eve of a grand
crescendo; how hope, rage, joy, and, finally,
celestial triumph irradiated those plain
features—all these things may be indeed told
here, but can give but a faint likeness of that
matchless Maestro. The great Mons
himself might have profitably sat at the feet of
such a musical Gamaliel.

Drinking, as before, between the pieces;
selters between the pieces; schiedam between
the pieces; Maestro himself observed to drink,
being athirst after his labour. But the cry
is now—"The race! the race! To the field!
Steeplechase, Mynheer!" Steeplechase of
donkeys—a thing of infinite sport, I am
impressively assured. Everybody has set himself