ROTTERDAM. BY ALEXANDER WHITELAW. tection a young man distantly related to him, whom he instructed in all the mysteries of his merchandise. This young man was named Carl Van Speed, and was in every respect worthy of the patronage bestowed on him. As he lived under the same roof with his master, and sat at the same table, he had every opportunity of cultivating an intimacy with the daughter. The consequence was that they fell speedily in love with one another, which was the more remarkable, that nothing could be more natural or appropriate. Whether the father wished or contemplated this result, no one could gather from his con than Delphic oracle was Mynheer Van Double Slow. He was, indeed, the most philosophic of Dutch Pythagoreans. Not only was he never known to utter an unnecessary word, but he even refrained from articulating those which were necessary. An explanation from him was hopeless-the human pyramid! To speak, interfered with the business of his life, Yet three smokes were which was to smoke. Rotterdam is the birth-place of Desiderius Erasmus, the reviver of learning, and within its magnificent cathedral sleep the patriotic De Wittses. These are the first thoughts which, to the man of letters, occur regarding Rotterdam, yet they are small matters in the eyes of its honest inhabitants, who value their town for its more substantial attractions-its comprehensive canals, its accommodating wharfs, its many-piled stores, and its heavy-versation, for more silent and unfathomable sterned argosies. The merchant there is the honourable of the earth. This claim to distinction is not founded alone on his individual resources or aggrandizement: he has, in most cases, a long line of ancestry to boast of, being himself but the latest link of an unbroken family chain, which reaches back to the brightest ages of the Dutch republic. He is no upstart speculator-no builder of his own fortune. His father and his father's father held the same situation which he holds, and he only continues a business the foundations of which were laid ages before he was born. To this circumstance may be attributed much of that repose and placidity which characterize the Dutch merchant. He has not, as others have, his way to make in the world; his road is carved out for him, his path smoothed; and he is consequently free from that anxiety and bustle which mark his less favoured fellowtraders. Of all the families of Rotterdam that of the Slows was one of the most ancient, and had from time immemorial possessed a reputable store and wharf near the cathedral of St. Lawrence. Its latest descendant was Mynheer Van Double Slow, in whose person the name was like to become extinct. Mynheer had married, it is true, but the only result was a daughter, who could not be supposed to support either the name or the mercantile distinction of the family. This circumstance harassed Mynheer, so far as it was possible for a man of his enviable disposition to be harassed. He loved Agatha, but he lamented that he had no son to continue the honours of his line. In the absence of one, he took under his pro all that he required in the day-one, when he rose till breakfast-time-another, from breakfast-time till dinner-time-and another, from dinner-time till he went to bed. In bed he was never known to use the meerschaum, except when he happened to be awake! Agatha, his daughter, bore the same relation to her father that a rainbow does to a cloud. She owed her existence to him, yet was sprightly No and beautiful as he was sombre and gross. maiden of Rotterdam stepped so lightlylaughed so merrily-or held in her bosom so generous a spirit. 'My father loves you, Carl," she said one day to her lover, who was insisting on their speedy union; "I know it from the manner in which he puffs in your face; but it is almost hopeless to expect that he will ever exert himself so far as to approve of our marriage. I sometimes imagine he is on the eve of advising it, but his resolution dies away in the smoke of the pipe. Still, let us give him four weeks of trial longer, and if in that time he says nothing, why I suppose we may-just marry without him." All the world of Rotterdam visit the teaParties are there held gardens once a week. of every description; for a Dutchman's home is sacred from friendly intrusions, and it is only in public where he displays his hospitality. Mynheer Van Double Slow was not behind the world of Rotterdam. He had a favourite bower in the tea-gardens, where, with his three keyboards, 72 stops, and 4762 pipes, the largest daughter and her lover, he regularly spent his 1 The church, which has been recently restored, is a brick structure of 1472 in the later Gothic style. The interior is of fine proportions, and contains numerous monuments of Dutch naval heroes. Its organ possesses of which is 32 feet long and 17 inches diameter. 2D SERIES, VOL. I. 106 Saturday afternoons. While he enjoyed him self with his schnaps and meerschaum, Carl OR, TEN YEARS AFTER. played divinely on the fiddle, and Agatha THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING; danced like an angel. The old man generally indicated his satisfaction by a grunt or an extra prolific puff; but on the first week after the resolution of Agatha recorded above, he approached the subject on which the lovers' souls were bent. "Carl, my prince," he said, "would you wish to mary?" Carl's heart leaped to his mouth, as he bowed an acquiescent affirmative-but the oracle had spoken, and not another word issued from the lips of Mynheer Van Double Slow! Next Saturday, Mynheer again enjoyed his meerschaum in his favourite bower-again Carl played divinely on the fiddle-and again Agatha danced like an angel. Again, also, was Mynheer moved to open his mouth. "Agatha, my dove," he said, "would you?" Agatha blushed and curtsied an affirmative --but the oracle had spoken, and not another word issued from the lips of Mynheer Van Double Slow! Another Saturday came with its usual enjoyments, and again did Mynheer open his mouth. "In that case," he said, laying down his pipe, "you had better" He took up his pipe again-lay back in his seat-and sacrificed the sentence in beatific puffs. The fourth Saturday came. Carl played more divinely than ever on the fiddle, and Agatha danced with tenfold grace and vigour. Mynheer had at length reached his goal. opened his mouth, and concluded his last week's sentence. He -"marry one another," he said. "We are married already, father," said Agatha. "This morning we went to the church of St. Lawrence, and took our vows." "That's good children," said Mynheer Van Double Slow, relapsing into his pipe, as of old. Months have now passed. Mynheer Van Double Slow still spends his Saturday afternoons in the bower, and Carl Van Speed still plays divinely on the fiddle, but Agatha is scarcely so nimble in the dance. People shake their heads, and talk of the march of intellect. which only means that the SPEEDS are likely to supplant the SLOWS. ber, 1830; died at Wardie, Edinburgh, 5th January, 1867. [Alexander Smith, born in Kilmarnock, 31st DecernHe was the son of a pattern designer, and was appren ticed to that business; but before he had attained his ma jority he had written the Life Drama, which secured for him immediate recognition as a poet of high promise, thanks to the enthusiasm of the Rev. George Gilfillan. He was then appointed secretary to the University of Edinburgh, which appointment afforded him a settled income and some leisure for composition. City Poems (from which we quote) and Edwin of Deira were his next important poetical works (Macmillan & Co.) His chief prose writings were: Dreamthorpe: Alfred Haggart's Household; and A Summer in Skye. "On the whole, then, we think Mr. Smith a true poet, and a poet of no common order."-North British Review.] The country ways are full of mire, Where mud-splashed hunting squires resort; 'Mong all the joys my soul hath known, Like autumn 'mid his wither'd leaves. Like a wet fisher tempest-tost, Who sees throughout the weltering night Afar on some low-lying coast The streaming of a rainy light, I saw this hour,-and now 'tis come; I cannot say, in Eastern style, Where'er she treads the pansy blows; Nor call her eyes twin-stars, her smile A sunbeam, and her mouth a rose. Nor can I, as your bridegrooms do, Talk of my raptures. Oh, how sore The fond romance of twenty-two Is parodied ere thirty-four! To-night I shake hands with the past,- Stands waiting. O ye naked rooms, The man who knew, while he was young, That long-lost passion of my youth. Oh, often did my spirit melt, Blurred letters, o'er your artless rhymes! Then ring in the wind, my wedding chimes; Old churchyard, stuff'd with buried crimes, "This happy bridegroom!" there is sin It may be, Florence, loving thee, It may be that your loving wiles Ye phantoms, born of bitter blood, What do you here on a wedding-morn? And lighten'd is the heavy curse, Black Bayard from the stable bring; The dawn is oozing pale and cold THE DILEMMA. BY H. G. BELL. "By St. Agatha! I believe there is something in the shape of a tear in those dark eyes of mine, about which the women rave so unmercifully," said the young Fitzclarence, as, after an absence of two years, he came once more in sight of his native village of Malhamdale. He stood upon the neighbouring heights, and watched the curling smoke coming up from the cottage chimneys in the clear blue sky of evening, and saw the last beams of the setting sun playing upon the western walls of his father's old baronial mansion, and, a little farther off, he could distinguish the trees and pleasure-grounds of Sir Meredith Appleby's less ancient seat. Then he thought of Julia Appleby, the baronet's only child, his youthful playmate, his first friend, and his first love; and as he thought of her, he sighed. I won der why he sighed! When they parted two years before, sanctioned and encouraged by their respective parents (for there was nothing the old people wished more than a union between the families), they had sworn eternal fidelity, and plighted their hearts irrevocably to each other. Fitzelarence thought of all this, and again he sighed. Different people are differently affected by the same things. After so long an absence many a man would, in the exuberance of his feelings, have thrown himself down upon the first bed of wild flowers he came to, and spouted long speeches to himself out of all known plays. Our hero preferred indulging in the following little soliloquy:— "My father will be amazingly glad to see me," said he to himself; "and so will my mother, and so will my old friend the antediluvian butler Morgan ap-Morgan, and so will the pointer Juno, and so will my pony Troilus; a pretty figure, by-the-by, I should cut now upon Troilus, in this gay military garb of mine, with my sword rattling between his legs, and my white plumes streaming in the air like a rainbow over him! And Sir Meredith Appleby, too, with his great gouty leg, will hobble through the room in ecstacy as soon as I present myself before him:-and Julia-poor Julia, will blush, and smile, and come flying into my arms like a shuttle-cock. Heigho! I am a very miserable young officer. The silly girl loves me; her imagination is all crammed with hearts and darts; she will bore me to death with her sighs, and her tender glances, and her allusions to time past, and her hopes of time to come, and all the artillery of a love-sick child's brain. What, in the name of the Pleiades, am I to do? I believe I had a sort of penchant for her once, when I was a mere boy in my nurse's leading-strings; || I believe I did give her some slight hopes at one time or other; but now-O Rosalind! dear -delightful" Here his feelings overpowered him, and pulling a miniature from his bosom, he covered it with kisses. Sorry am I to be obliged to confess that it was not the miniature of Julia. 'But what is to be done?" he at length resumed. "The poor girl will go mad; she will hang herself in her garters; or drown herself, like Ophelia, in a brook under a willow. And I shall be her murderer! I, who have never yet knocked on the head a single man in the field of battle, will commence my warlike operations by breaking the heart of a woman. By St. Agatha! it must not be; I must be true to my engagement. Yes! though I become myself a martyr, I must obey the dictates of honour. Forgive me, Rosalind, beautiful object of my adoration! Let not thy Fitzelarence". Here his voice became again inarticulate and, as he winded down the hill, nothing was heard but the echoes of the multitudinous kisses he continued to lavish on the little brilliantly-set portrait he held in his hands. Next morning Sir Meredith Appleby was just in the midst of a very sumptuous breakfast (for notwithstanding his gout, the baronet contrived to preserve his appetite), and the pretty Julia was presiding over the tea and coffee at the other end of the table, immediately opposite her papa, with the large longeared spaniel sitting beside her, and ever and anon looking wistfully into her face, when a servant brought in, on a little silver tray, a letter for Sir Meredith. The old gentleman read it aloud; it was from the Elder Fitzelar ence: "My dear friend, Alfred arrived last night. He and I will dine with you to-day. Yours, Fitzelarence." Julia's cheeks grew first as white as her brow, and then as red as her lips. As soon as breakfast was over, she retired to her own apartment, whither we must, for once, take the liberty of following her. She sat herself down before her mirror, and deliberately took from her hair a very tasteful little knot of fictitious flowers, which she had fastened in it when she rose. One naturally expected that she was about to replace this ornament with something more splendid—a few jewels, perhaps; but she was not going to do any such thing. She rung the bell; her confidential attendant, Alice, answered the summons. "La! ma'am," said she, "what is the matter? You look as ill as my aunt Bridget." "You have heard me talk of Alfred Fitzclarence, Alice, have you not?" said the lady, languidly, and at the same time slightly blush ing. "O yes, ma'am, I think I have. He was to be married to you before he went to the wars." |