tricks and bits of charlatanry, stolen from
the scene-painter's workshop. Whatever be
the truth, he has a marvellously cunning
hand that works startling effects. Belgian men
of the brush have latterly taken heartily to the
same trick, if trick it be; and have run
Scalken pretty hard: though they may never
hope to come near that breath-bating bit of his
that hangs, under safeguard of a sheet of
glass, upon the walls of the Royal Picture
Museum. Half a dozen different lights are
playing away there with a reality, and
a strange intensity that gathers the wondering
faces of the Dutch countrymen
about that picture before all others. Some
witchery they must think belonged to the
brush, which can reflect the dull glare of
candle-light and lantern-light, and moon-
light, stealing in privily at a side window.

How did these fellows go about their work?
—had they their models come to them of
nights, and did they keep them bent there
for hours over a real practicable candle?
No, no! They had ample opportunities of
another kind, as I can testify, were I myself
minded to take a brush and set up in the
Scalken line; I had need merely to go forth
into the public square of any Dutch town at
nightfall, and there find prodigious candle-light
effects in all varieties ready made to
one's hand. In fact, it was the memory of
one such nightly stroll that started this
whole notion of Scalken and the candle-light
effects. The cunning fellow was of the
country himself (Dordrecht saw him come
into the world) and must have had the trick
constantly before his eyes from the days when
he was running about, a fat, chubby, Dutch
child.

In most Dutch cities, as we have seen,
there is but small entertainment for the
evening hours: so the traveller, if he be
a solitary man, or unless he be partial to his
own company, and be on social terms with
his own thoughts, will be like enough to be
wasted by slow consuming fire of ennui. No
theatre, no singing place, no resource of any
sort, and nothing but the purest essence  of
humdrum, save, indeed, on Sunday evenings,
when there is abundant choice of conventicle
open; and one is driven about from place of
worship to place of worship with very
profane notion of finding entertainment in
that way; which, after all, furnishes but
scanty resource, as has been shown in one of
the earliest of these papers; saving, always
when it is given to one to light on a glorious
old organ, rolling out full music, which
it has been busy with for two centuries
back. Being thus stranded, as it were,
and driven in upon himself, when night
has fallen, what has the traveller before him
but sheer sleep, if he can compass it, or
rather, lying uneasily upon his back until
the street hurly-burly begins? More sensibly,
however, he will go forth himself, and see
what delectation may be gathered that way.

To the open place, of which towns boast at
least one, to serve as a sort of hurly-burly
centre. At this season shops are shut, and
so shop-assistants are set free to swell the
hurly-burly. Serving men and serving women
contrive to be out on the loose, swelling the
hurly-burly. It is free time—recreation and
temporary saturnalia congregated round the
place, and travelling shop-carts of different
sizes and respectability, some moving to and
fro, some stationary, but all in full work.
Heaps of Autolycuses, with their packs.
Heaps of buxom women in treaty with
Autolycus, who seems stiff and unbending
enough. Why their cheerful laugh
and merry railing were payment enough
in all conscience. But the grim dirty, old
clothesmen, are only the more surly, and
will not let them have a penny off—they
have no consciences, those low Dutchmen.

Some of the monsters stand behind little
travelling shops, got up with extraordinary
gin-palace magnificence. They shine resplendent,
with little painted casks and gilt vessels,
with jars of green, red, and yellow preparations,
all making up a dazzling show. Colour
seemed to be the grand aim; though, when
it was considered that these were all comfitures
and confections, and sweet, sugary
drinks, for the delectation of the palate, they
lost much of their encouraging aspect. Over
head flared a lamp, which lit up the gold
and colours. Perambulating trays on wheels,
set out with pink pears, green, unripe
fruit of all qualities, hard plums and
damaged peaches, went up and down in the
dark, to the peril of gazers' limbs. They
would run you down, without scruple, those
hucksters. Population moving to and fro,
passing each other in a chequered sort of
fashion, like the chorus of the opera, only
these are but a dingy chorus. A dingy, ill-
conditioned crew; saving always my little
Dutchwomen, who here, as everywhere else,
shine out resplendently even through the
darkness of the night—morning or evening,
always the same with them—smiles, good
humour, tidiness, buxomness eternal! I fancy,
at times, if the Rev. Mr. Sterne had come this
road, when the sentimental vein was on him,
instead of taking that other lounging journey
through France and Italy, he would have seen
curious incidents to record, in connection
with these same little Dutchwomen. I fear
very much that his reverence would have been
taking them by the chin, and getting them to
take up those little rents in his holy black
stockings all the day long.

I can see one of them now at that same
Scalken night-scene, who has just set down her
two pails, one on each side of her, to have a
screed with two heavy sailors. Two of the
heaviest, weariest, hulking fellows that ever
swabbed a deck; fellows plainly, with but one
idea that must have been got in with heaven
knows how much pains,—to be got out, or