"A PRELUDE."-FROM THE PAINTING BY T. W. DEWING, OWNED BY C. T. BARNEY, ESQ.

IT

T has always seemed to me a most deliberate and cold-blooded proceeding, at best of times, to set out on a pleasure journey alone by one's self (a sentiment in which many a lone lorn wife of many a galivanting husband will only too read ily concur, without doubt); but on that particularly damp and drizzly night in October when I, sad and solitary, sank into a cold corner seat of the Queensborough train for the Flushing boat, and heard the sharp patter of rain as we slid out of the station drive against the pane, and saw the ghostly shreds of steam scud by, it added awfully to the loneliness and depression, and seemed more cold and deliberate than usual. It had all been so deliberately planned-this little trip-between my pleasant sketching companion of last year and myself! There were to be no false starts, no chasing of the wildgoose vainly all over the "Land of Cuyp," this time. Maps had been studied, all sorts of information bearing on the country had been got at and carefully stored up, and, after all, this was the upshot! The pleasant friend was obliged to go sooner, and I could only go later, than we intended, and the only balm and consolation we could offer to each other was the chance of meeting blithely in some weedy town, somewhere on the damp surface of the Low Countries.

I have already given a slight "impres sionist" sketch of the first view of Holland at early morn from the steamer's deck. There was no healthy impulse to repeat the picture with a slightly altered back ground of gray mizzle on that particular morning; in fact, there was not much to see except the dim damp outlines of the Flushing landing-place when I came on deck.

Familiarity with the Dutch language to the extent of a dozen or two words gave me a certain feeling of calm security through the various little ordeals of the custom-house, and I soon found myself on the train bound for the good old town of Middelburg.

It was a pet part of the new plan to begin Holland again where we left off so grudgingly. We had only a mere glimpse of the quaint old capital of this island of Walcheren when we were hurried away, but vowing to return on the first opportunity.

The distance between Flushing and Middelburg is so short that notwithstanding a longish wait at the station and a most deliberate express train-when once started-it was still early morning when we arrived at our destination. I say we, as there was seemingly another blinking passenger besides myself that descended, but he disappeared so suddenly into the misty air that he must have been a ghost. I was left alone to the well-meant but utterly foggy attentions of a dazed youth, who appeared to be ticket-taker, porter, and station-master in one. The only visible conveyance to take me to the hotel was a man with a weird elongated wheelbarrow.

Stay! there was even a choice between the man with the wheelbarrow and a long, frail, sketchy youth, who offered to carry the things on his back. He seemed to have grown up overnight like some pale stalk of rank asparagus, and be in danger of cracking in two if bent under the burden of a travelling bag. I took the wheelbarrow man, as I had not the heart to try any experiments on the youth. So, failing as porter, he offered himself as guide. I was obliged to discourage even this ambi

VOL. LXIX.-No. 411.-21

"A PRELUDE."-FROM THE PAINTING BY T. W. DEWING, OWNED BY C. T. BARNEY, Esq.

T has always seemed to me a most de

with the Dutch language

at best of times, to set out on a pleasure journey alone by one's self (a sentiment in which many a lone lorn wife of many a galivanting husband will only too readily concur, without doubt); but on that particularly damp and drizzly night in October when I, sad and solitary, sank into a cold corner seat of the Queensborough train for the Flushing boat, and heard the sharp patter of rain as we slid out of the station drive against the pane, and saw the ghostly shreds of steam scud by, it added awfully to the loneliness and depression, and seemed more cold and deliberate than usual. It had all been so deliberately planned-this little trip-between my pleasant sketching companion of last year and myself! There were to be no false starts, no chasing of the wildgoose vainly all over the "Land of Cuyp," this time. Maps had been studied, all sorts of information bearing on the country had been got at and carefully stored up, and, after all, this was the upshot! The pleasant friend was obliged to go sooner, and I could only go later, than we intended, and the only balm and consolation we could offer to each other was the chance of meeting blithely in some weedy town, somewhere on the damp surface of the Low Countries.

I have already given a slight "impressionist" sketch of the first view of Holland at early morn from the steamer's deck. There was no healthy impulse to repeat the picture with a slightly altered back ground of gray mizzle on that particular morning; in fact, there was not much to see except the dim damp outlines of the Flushing landing-place when I came on deck.

gave me a certain feeling of calm security through the various little ordeals of the custom-house, and I soon found myself on the train bound for the good old town of Middelburg.

It was a pet part of the new plan to begin Holland again where we left off so grudgingly. We had only a mere glimpse of the quaint old capital of this island of Walcheren when we were hurried away, but vowing to return on the first opportunity.

The distance between Flushing and Middelburg is so short that notwithstanding a longish wait at the station and a most deliberate express train-when once started-it was still early morning when we arrived at our destination. I say we, as there was seemingly another blinking passenger besides myself that descended, but he disappeared so suddenly into the misty air that he must have been a ghost. I was left alone to the well-meant but utterly foggy attentions of a dazed youth, who appeared to be ticket-taker, porter, and station-master in one. The only visible conveyance to take me to the hotel was a man with a weird elongated wheelbarrow.

Stay! there was even a choice between the man with the wheelbarrow and a long, frail, sketchy youth, who offered to carry the things on his back. He seemed to have grown up overnight like some pale stalk of rank asparagus, and be in danger of cracking in two if bent under the burden of a travelling bag. I took the wheelbarrow man, as I had not the heart to try any experiments on the youth. So, failing as porter, he offered himself as guide. I was obliged to discourage even this ambi

VOL. LXIX.-No. 411.-21

tion in him, although it went against me, he looked so pathetic, and eager to earn the breakfast that his weedy constitution stood so much in need of. Failing as guide, he became a hopeful follower, and shambled on after us at a respectful distance. He kept reminding me of poor Smike, with the cuffs of his faded outgrown jacket half up to his elbows, and his well-patched trousers half up to his knees. He saw us well up to the hotel door, and had evidently, like "Melancholy" in his own case, "marked me for his own."

When we could prevail on the rosy young giantess to stop splashing and squirting water over the fan-light of the hotel door a moment, so that we might enter, I found a tolerably cheery welcome. There was a moment's shade of gloom when I declined to take any more breakfast. There had been a kind of one on the boat, and a further trifling with one at the station; a third one would have been mere vanity. So, not to lose time, or happy chance, or the misty morning effects, I soon arranged hotel matters, and turned out again into the chill air. Smike was waiting for me, pathetic and eager. He kindly pointed out the very obvious Townhall, and remarked, "Museum." If I could

have spoken Dutch fluently, I should probably have spoken it harshly to that weedy lad, but the moment's hesitation about terms sufficiently abusive gave me time to reflect. Why should I discourage the only evidence of enterprise that seemed to be awake in the place? He was, furthermore, picturesque and quaint, and the very twin brother of the poor drudge over whom so many bitter boyish tears were shed when Nickleby was read for the first time-yea, even the tenth time! This Smike was evidently no great linguist; he had small English, and less French, and but hazy German. But why not-he looked longsuffering and defenseless-why not try some elementary Dutch on him? Poor boy, he seemed delighted with it, and understood it nearly as well as I did myself. And I, guessing at the probable replies to my own observations, could frequently understand him.

We would go, then, and see the Abbey. That venerable pile at best of times is slightly shut in, and naturally somewhat damp, mouldy, and depressed; but on this chill October morning, with the great gaunt trees weeping tears of thick dew over the bed of dead leaves that strewed the soppy ground, reeking with stale miasma, it was far, far from cheerful. Ar