Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents | Page 7

across them, and innumerable barges gliding
busily along. Nothing could be finer than the weather; it improved each
moment, as if propitious to my exotic fancies; and, at sunset, not one
single cloud obscured the horizon. Several storks were parading by the
water-side, amongst flags and osiers; and, as far as the eye could reach,
large herds of beautifully spotted cattle were enjoying the plenty of
their pastures. I was perfectly in the environs of Canton, or Ning Po, till
we reached Meerdyke. You know fumigations are always the current
recipe in romance to break an enchantment; as soon, therefore, as I left
my carriage, and entered my inn, the clouds of tobacco which filled
every one of its apartments dispersed my Chinese imaginations, and
reduced me in an instant to Holland.
Why should I enlarge upon my adventures at Meerdyke? To tell you
that its inhabitants are the most uncouth bipeds in the universe would
be nothing very new or entertaining; so let me at once pass over the
village, leave Rotterdam, and even Delft, that great parent of pottery,
and transport you with a wave of my pen to the Hague.
As the evening was rather warm, I immediately walked out to enjoy the
shade of the long avenue which leads to Scheveling. It was fresh and
pleasant enough, but I breathed none of those genuine woody perfumes,

which exhale from the depths of forests, and which allure my
imagination at once to the haunts of Pan and the good old Sylvanus.
However, I was far from displeased with my ramble; and, consoling
myself with the hopes of shortly reposing in the sylvan labyrinths of
Nemi, I proceeded to the village on the sea-coast, which terminates the
perspective. Almost every cottage door being open to catch the air, I
had an opportunity of looking into their neat apartments. Tables,
shelves, earthenware, all glisten with cleanliness; the country people
were drinking tea, after the fatigues of the day, and talking over its
bargains and contrivances.
I left them, to walk on the beach, and was so charmed with the vast
azure expanse of ocean, which opened suddenly upon me, that I
remained there a full half hour. More than two hundred vessels of
different sizes were in sight, the last sunbeams purpling their sails, and
casting a path of innumerable brilliants athwart the waves. What would
I not have given to follow this shining track! It might have conducted
me straight to those fortunate western climates, those happy isles which
you are so fond of painting, and I of dreaming about. But, unluckily,
this passage was the only one my neighbours the Dutch were ignorant
of. To be sure they have islands rich in spices, and blessed with the
sun's particular attention, but which their government, I am apt to
imagine, renders by no means fortunate.
Abandoning therefore all hopes at present of this adventurous voyage, I
returned towards the Hague, and, in my way home, looked into a
country-house of the late Count Bentinck, with parterres and bosquets
by no means resembling (one should conjecture) the gardens of the
Hesperides. But, considering that the whole group of trees, terraces,
and verdure were in a manner created out of hills of sand, the place
may claim some portion of merit. The walks and alleys have all the
stiffness and formality our ancestors admired; but the intermediate
spaces, being dotted with clumps and sprinkled with flowers, are
imagined in Holland to be in the English style. An Englishman ought
certainly to behold it with partial eyes, since every possible attempt has
been made to twist it into the taste of his country.

I need not say how liberally I bestowed my encomiums on Count B.'s
tasteful intentions; nor how happy I was, when I had duly serpentized
over his garden, to find myself once more in the grand avenue. All the
way home, I reflected upon the economical disposition of the Dutch,
who raise gardens from heaps of sand, and cities out of the bosom of
the waters. I had still a further proof of this thrifty turn, since the first
object I met was an unwieldy fellow (not able, or unwilling, perhaps, to
afford horses) airing his carcass in a one- dog chair. The poor animal
puffed and panted,--Mynheer smoked, and gaped around him with the
most blessed indifference.

LETTER IV

June 30th.
I dedicated the morning to the Prince of Orange's cabinet of paintings
and curiosities both natural and artificial. Amongst the pictures which
amused me the most is a St. Anthony, by Hell-fire Brughel, who has
shown himself right worthy of the title; for a more diabolical variety of
imps never entered the human imagination. Brughel has made his saint
take refuge in a ditch filled with