g the waters. There is a beauty of gaiety
and a beauty of gravity; and Amsterdam in its older parts--on the
Keizersgracht and the Heerengracht--has the beauty of gravity. In
Venice the canal is of course also the street: gondolas and barcas
are continually gliding hither and thither; but in the Keizersgracht
and the Heerengracht the water is little used. One day, however,
I watched a costermonger steering a boat-load of flowers under a
bridge, and no words of mine can describe the loveliness of their
reflection. I remember the incident particularly because flowers are
not much carried in Holland, and it is very pleasant to have this
impression of them--this note of happy gaiety in so dark a setting.

An unprotected roadway runs on either side of the water, which makes
the houses beside these canals no place for Charles Lamb's friend,
George Dyer, to visit in. Accidents are not numerous, but a company
exists in Amsterdam whose business it is to rescue such odd dippers
as horses and carriages by means of elaborate machinery devised for
the purpose. Only travellers born under a luckier star than I are
privileged to witness such sport.

In the main Amsterdam is a city of trade, of hurrying business men,
of ceaseless clanging tramcars and crowded streets; but on the
Keizersgracht and the Heerengracht you are always certain to find
the old essential Dutch gravity and peace. No tide moves the sullen
waters of these canals, which are lined with trees that in spring
form before the narrow, dark, discreet houses the most delicate green
tracery imaginable; and in summer screen them altogether. These houses
are for the most part black and brown, with white window frames,
and they rise to a great height, culminating in that curious stepped
gable (with a crane and pulley in it) which is, to many eyes, the
symbol of the city. I know no houses that so keep their secrets. In
every one, I doubt not, is furniture worthy of the exterior: old
paintings of Dutch gentlemen and gentlewomen, a landscape or two,
a girl with a lute and a few tavern scenes; old silver windmills; and
plate upon plate of serene blue Delft. (You may see what I mean in the
Suasso rooms at the Stedelijk Museum.) I have walked and idled in the
Keizersgracht at all times of the day, but have never seen any real
signs of life. Mats have been banged on its doorsteps by clean Dutch
maidservants armed with wicker beaters; milk has been brought in huge
cans of brass and cop