in one of the many sanguinary encounters that ensued.

The old Laird of Kinvaid awoke from the paroxysm of his grief to a state of almost dotage, yet occasionally a glimpse of the past would shoot across his mind; for, in wandering vacantly about his dwelling, he would sometimes exclaim, in the spirit so beautifully expressed in the Arabian manuscript, "Where is my child?" and Echo answered, "Where?"

The burial vaults of both the Kinvaid and Lynedoch families, who were related, were in the church of Methven; but, according to a wish said to have been expressed by the two young friends, "who were lovely in their lives, and in death were not divided," they were buried near a beautiful bank of the Almond. Several of the poets of Scotland have sung their hapless fate: Lednoch bank has become classic in story; and, during the last century and a half, many thousands of enthusiastic pilgrims have visited the spot, which the late proprietor of Lynedoch has inclosed with pious care.

Of the original ballad only a few lines remain: they are full of nature and simple pathos.

'Bessy Bell and Mary Gray

They were twa bonny lasses;

They biggit a bower on yon burn brae, And theekit it owre wi' rashes.

"They wouldna lie in Methven kirk
Beside their gentle kin;

But they would lie on Lednoch braes,
To beek them in the sun."

THE PAINTER WHO PLEASED

NOBODY AND EVERYBODY.

[John Gay, born at Barnstaple, Devonshire, 1688; died in London, 4th December, 1732. Dramatist and poet. He wrote many pieces for the stage, of which the most successful was the Beggar's Opera-intended as a satire upon the Italian Opera. Of his other works the most notable are: The Mohocks, a farce; Wife of Bath, a comedy; Three Hours after Marriage, a comedy; The Shepherd's Week, in six pastorals; and his Fables, from which we quote.]

Lest men suspect your tale untrue, Keep probability in view.

The traveller leaping o'er those bounds,
The credit of his book confounds.

Who with his tongue hath armies routed,
Makes even his real courage doubted.
But flattery never seems absurd;
The flatter'd always take your word:

Impossibilities seem just;

They take the strongest praise on trust.
Hyperboles, though ne'er so great,
Will still come short of self-conceit.

So very like a painter drew,
That every eye the picture knew,
He hit complexion, feature, air,
So just, the life itself was there.
No flattery with his colours laid,
To bloom restor'd the faded maid;
He gave each muscle all its strength;
The mouth, the chin, the nose's length;
His honest pencil touched with truth,
And mark'd the date of age and youth.

He lost his friends, his practice fail'd;
Truth should not always be reveal'd:
In dusty piles his pictures lay,
For no one sent the second pay.
Two bustos, fraught with every grace,
A Venus' and Apollo's face,
He plac'd in view; resolv'd to please,
Whoever sat he drew from these,
From these corrected every feature,
And spirited each awkward creature.
All things were set; the hour was come,
His pallet ready o'er his thumb.
My lord appear'd; and seated right,
In proper attitude and light,

The painter look'd, he sketch'd the piece,
Then dipt his pencil, talk'd of Greece,
Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air;
Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there
Might well a Raphael's hand require,
To give them all the native fire;
The features, fraught with sense and wit,
You'll grant, are very hard to hit;
But yet with patience you shall view
As much as paint and art can do.

Observe the work. My lord replied,
"Till now I thought my mouth was wide;
Besides, my nose is somewhat long:
Dear sir, for me, 'tis far too young."
"Oh! pardon me," the artist cry'd;
"In this we painters must decide.
The piece ev'n common eyes must strike,
I warrant it extremely like."
My lord examin'd it anew;
No looking-glass seem'd half so true.
A lady came, with borrow'd grace
He from his Venus form'd her face.
Her lover prais'd the painter's art;
So like the picture in his heart!
To every age some charm he lent;
Ev'n beauties were almost content.

173

Through all the town his art they prais'd; His custom grew, his price was rais'd. Had he the real likeness shown, Would any man the picture own? But, when thus happily he wrought, Each found the likeness in his thought.

THE DUTCH AT HOME.

[Henri Alphonse Esquiros, born in Paris, 1814. He has written poems-The Swallows and the Songs of a Prisoner; romances-The Magicians and Charlotte Corday; social and historical studies, and sketches of travel, which have been the most popular of his works, namely, The English at Home: The Dutch at Home; &c. Chapman and Hall publish the English version of the latter work, and from it the following is taken.]

Still,

There is in Holland a life unknown elsewhere, or at least but badly known; it is life on the water. You must visit this country to comprehend the touching melancholy of the Spiritus Dei ferebatur super aquas. what floats on the waters is probably less the Spirit of God than of man, for in the Netherlands you are incessantly recalled to the feeling of reality. At all the spots where nature had forgotten to place rivers or streams, Dutch industry has made canals. These water-ways lead not merely from one town to another, but even to each village, we might almost say to each country-house; hence, such an arterial system could not fail to be marvellously favourable to the circulation of produce. Through Haarlem alone 22,000 boats pass annually. An English traveller asked himself, two centuries back, whether there were not more people in Holland living on the water than on land. As the majority of these canals are higher than the adjoining fields, and as they are concealed by dykes, at a certain distance off you can see neither water nor boats, but only the swelling sails, which have the appearance of making an excursion about the country. There are boats for conveying passengers; the rich and busy classes despise this mode of locomotion as too slow or too vulgar, but they lose those landscape beauties for which the speed does not compensate. Be on your guard against railways in Holland, for travelling by them is running through the country, but not travelling. Those who do not consider the time devoted to the gratification of the sight as lost, poets, artists, the contemplators of nature or of local manners, will always prefer these slow and rustic boats to the winged carriages.

Heaven forbid that we should condemn steam, whose services, on the contrary, we admire; but Holland is of all countries in the world the one which, owing to its abundance of canals, could most easily do without locomotives. Elsewhere navigation has never been able to compete with the iron ways, but in the Netherlands the greater part of the carriage

still continues to be effected by water; and this economic method will for a long time supply most wants. The services rendered elsewhere by carts are here performed by boats; the gardener himself pulls to market his boat laden with vegetables, fruits, or flowers, just as in the south of France a donkey is led along. All this verdure, all this wealth of spring, arranged with a vivid feeling for colour, really is a pleasure to look upon.

At Amsterdam, on quarter days, the furniture is moved from one part of the town to another on the canals; chairs and tables, arranged with some degree of symmetry, appear to be awaiting visitors. These saloons on the water move along through the crowd, which does not even look at them. Milk comes to Amsterdam from the adjacent farms by the same route, in the morning at five or six o'clock, and in the afternoon about three. The North Holland canal, whose width more than one river might envy, sees boats coming and going, loaded with oak buckets, adorned with copper handles and hoops. The milk girls who hover round these boats are frequently young and pretty; their large hats of shining straw, the brim of which is slightly turned up in front and back, their large earrings, and coral bead necklaces, set off their ruddy complexions. The milk-boats sometimes meet on the Amsterdam canals water-boats coming from Utrecht. Such is in fact one of the singularities of this Northern Venice; though seated in the midst of water, it has none to drink. Flat boats, true water-carriers, were obliged to come to its help till very recently, when human industry sought rain-water in the sand of the dunes, and brought it to Amsterdam by engines whose strength and boldness of conception are admirable; but the use of the new fountains has not yet spread through all classes of the population.

The boats specially employed for the passenger service are called trekschuyten. They are a species of gondola or water diligence. Along nearly the whole length, which is about thirty feet, runs a box or wooden house, frequently painted green; the roof, on which the sailors walk to perform sundry operations, being covered with a layer of pounded cockle-shells. This house is divided into two compartments, or cabins; the larger one, situated near the prow, is common to passengers and luggage. Here, during the winter, the worthy people, shut up as in a box, swim along in a cloak of tobacco smoke, which relieves the tedium of the voyage. In summer the wooden shutters are removed, and the hatch is raised from the

orifice by which the travellers descend. The second compartment is the cabinet, called in Dutch the roef, which is entered through folding doors. This second cabin is small, but fitted up with some degree of taste. The win dows, four or six in number, are glazed, and have red or white curtains, according to the season. In the centre is a table with a copper vessel containing fire, and another smaller one to receive cigar-ash, both cleaned and polished in a manner only found in Holland. Add to this, to complete the furniture, a mat, a looking-glass, and, in winter for the ladies, a footwarmer, called the stoof, containing a small earthenware vessel, with two or three lumps of lighted peat in it. Along two sides of this cabin run cushioned benches, on which the travellers sit down opposite to each other. Sometimes there are on a shelf a few volumes belonging to the boat, and forming a floating library at the service of the studious passengers. The whole national character is revealed in this simple and minute attention to comfort. At the bows, the space not occupied by the cabinet is filled with merchandise, bales, and barrels; while the poop is left to travellers who wish to take the fresh air, and the helmsman, who steers and smokes the while with the regularity of a steamer.

The master of the trekschuyt is a worthy Dutchman, with an honest and placid face, who receives the fares from the passengers in a leathern purse. In the front of the boat stands the mast, which is lowered at each bridge, and to the top of which a long rope is fastened, the other end being on the bank. This rope is fastened to the horse that pulls the boat, on which the postilion (het jagertje) is mounted. This driver, who is generally a young fellow, wears over his shoulder, in some parts, a buffalo horn, which he blows, either to give the signal for starting, or to have the bridges raised, or else to warn boats coming in the opposite direction on the same canal; but generally he contents himself with giving the warning by shouting. When the trekschuyt passes through towns, the horse is unfastened, and it is propelled by poles through the tangled web of boats. The Dutch boatmen are neither turbulent nor quarrelsome, and it is a pleasure to see them working in silence upon the silent waters.

The boats are, with the mills and the headdress of the women, the characteristic types of Dutch manners. At times they only go short distances, as, for instance, from the Hague to Delft, and are in that case water omnibuses. When the journey is long, each establishes himself in the cabin as in his room, and carries

on his business; for it is the nature of the Dutchman to economize the stuff of which life is made. People write, eat, and sleep; the ladies produce their needle-work, the elder ones their knitting. From one town to another is with them the distance of half a stocking. It is not rare for an organist to be present in the front cabin, who whiles away the fatigue of the journey by playing. On Sunday, especially toward evening, young girls are fond of singing in chorus; and this song of the waters has something simple and soft about it which is affecting.

On the trekschuyten floats Old Holland, with its language, manners, and conscientious and powerful originality. On the railways it is rare for a traveller coming from France to meet fellow-passengers who do not understand him; in the barges, on the contrary, it is very rare to meet Dutchmen who understand or speak French. It is generally believed that, to identify yourself with a foreign nation, you must speak the language; the principle is true, but some restrictions must be made. In Holland, where there is candour in the relations of life, you are often less of a stranger because you speak the language of the country more or less incorrectly., The necessity of understanding each other by a word, the language of symbols, the medley of sounds badly pronounced, or misunderstood-all this creates a species of sympathetic current whence arises a sort of intimacy. There are some trekschuyten in which you pass the night; at about six in the evening, in the event of the master being polite (and we never met any who were not so), he invites you to take tea. You then see a little cabinet produced, containing cups, sugarbasin, and tea-pot of black earthenware, which is not inelegant. The kettle is placed on a species of stove, covered with Chinese designs, and containing a vessel filled with burning peat. At night the roef is divided into two parts—a saloon, and a small sleeping room, of which the curtains are raised. A common bed, occupying the entire width of the cabin, and on which men and women sleep honestly side by side, invites you to take your share of the universal calm and rest of nature. This bed is composed of a mattress and counterpane, and you lie down on it full dressed. this period the boat continues its noiseless voyage through the waters, which divide in a silvery furrow on either side the prow.

During

On the railways, steam effaces everything through its speed; in the boats you enjoy at your ease the scenery, and the physiognomy of the towns and villages you pass through. Seated near the helm, you allow your eyes to

wander over the water, which yields with a slight plash to the movement of the boat; you notice the white, red, or black sails that enliven the solitude of the canals the prairies where cows, covered in spring with warm blankets, gravely chew the damp grass; the beautiful marsh birds, which are seen nowhere else; the women silently washing the linen; or the continuous fringe of châteaux, country houses, and gardens that lines the canal banks.

The scenery of Holland has often been accused of monotony; but possibly persons have not looked twice at it. Here you must not seek variety on the earth, but in the sky. Look up the sky is more diversified in the Netherlands than anywhere in France. Those immense clouds, with their thousand shapes, their changing colours and rapid wings, impart a singular movement to the landscape. But the land and the water are not without diversity. The nature of the Netherlands is photographic, clear, positive, and delicate, abounding in minute and charming details. Individual property is neither imprisoned nor hidden; the fields are walled by water. In these ditches that take the place of hedgerows, a perfect aquatic flora is expanded, not less rich or varied than the terrestrial flora. In spring the sombre surface of the canals is studded with little white flowers, soon to be joined by the lily and the iris; it is the festival of the waters. There is not a plant, however small, in this cold and damp vegetable nature, which has not its day of beauty. Nor is life absent from the scene. On the banks of the canal marches from distance to distance a sturdy lad, and at times a bending woman, painfully towing a boat along. These wooden houses lodge families, which are born, live, and die in them. Often you may see a mother sitting near the tiller, and gravely giving her infant the breast. The Dutchman is so naturally a sailor, that once on the water he never looks as if he wished to reach his destination. The feeling which these persons, cradled at their birth on the sleeping waters of the canals, know the least, is impatience. You meet, now and then, a boatwoman after Rubens' taste, who, proud of her embonpoint and second youth, casts around her a cold and resolute glance, like the queen of the waters. In these travelling-houses dwell domestic animals, which have become, as it were, amphibious, and have the calm faces of their masters. Between the lights the surface of the canals is changed into a mirror, in which all nature laves and purifies its image. On the banks, the trees, wearied by the heat of the day, dip the end of their leaves into the

water, as if to drink. At night, if you stand near the tiller you enjoy a spectacle that has some grandeur about it. The mills with folded wings which seem to be gazing on the stars, the placid light of the moon on the tranquil waters, the innocent attitude of the small houses slumbering on the banks of the canal, and from which a cock-crow is audible now and then-all this reveals to you one of the rustic sides of Dutch life.

Holland is not only the country where you find the most water, but also the one where you find the most motionless water. The canals are arrested rivers, and this serenity of the water is related to that of the manners, habitations, and countenances. Near the towns. Chinese pavilions are built on the canal banks, where people meet in fine weather to drink tea and coffee. Some of these pavilions, whose roofs are covered with varnished and glistening tiles, bathe their base in water with a joyous air. In these nests, which repose under an abundant verdure, domestic happiness seeks a refuge. The stranger who wanders about alone regards with an eye of envy these little retreats, which are so proud of their cleanliness, and look at themselves in the canal like a girl before a looking-glass. Here the ladies apply themselves to needle-work, while looking out at the passing boats and travellers; while for the men the hours evaporate in rings of smoke. It has long been remarked how naturally a pipe hung from a Dutch mouth, and most local habits are based on the hygienic conditions of the climate. Beneath the foggy sky of the Netherlands, a necessity was felt to produce smoke against smoke; it is a sort of local homoeopathy. Some physiologists have asserted that tobacco smoke befogged the intellect, but this observation is contradicted by the Dutchman, who lives in a cloud, and whose mind is more precise, positive, and clear in its details than that of any other people. If this opium of the North does not contribute to vagueness of ideas, it might possibly lull the brain to sleep.

Less loquacious and more contemplative than the southern Frenchman, the Dutchman is silent, but he is not taciturn. Gay nations are not always happy nations; there are some men who laugh on the same principle as children sing when crossing a wood by night-to overcome their fears. In Holland we find what thinkers born in periods of moral agitation never attain, and what Dante soughtpeace. It is not rare to notice on little wayside hostelries the inscription Pax intrantibus! We might say that life is like the water of the canals-it does not flow. Be it illusion or