that these simple stories are "pearls set in
Flemish gold,--a gold which alchemysts seek for in alembics and
furnaces, but which Conscience has found in the inexhaustible veins of
nature." "The Poor Gentleman," he remarks, "is a tale of not more than a
hundred and fifty pages; but I would not give its shortest chapter for
all the _romances_ I ever read. The perplexed De Vlierbeck--who ought to
have had Caleb Balderstone for a servant--is one of those characters
that engrave themselves indelibly on our memory." In every trait and
detail the author has attained a photographic minuteness; which, while
it is distinct and sharp, never interferes with that motion, breadth,
and picturesque effect that impart life and reality to a story. Nor can
we doubt that it will be read and re-read as long as there is a particle
of that feeling among us which installed the Vicar of Wakefield, Paul
and Virginia, the Crock of Gold, the Sketch-book, and the Tales of a
Traveller, among the heirlooms of every tasteful household. The "Tales
of Flemish Life" are additions to that rare stock of home-literature
which is at once amiable and gentle, simple and affectionate, familiar
and tender, and which meets a quick response from every honest heart and
earnest spirit.

If it be objected that the stories are too short and sketchy for the
praise that has been bestowed on them, it may be answered that in their
translation we have had the best opportunity to observe the skill,
power, and perception of character which constitute their real merit.
Simple as they seem, they are written with masterly art. In design,
elaborateness, tone, and finish, they resemble the works of the Flemish
School which have made us familiar with the Low Countries and their
people through the pictures of Ruysdael, Teniers, and Ostade. There is
scarcely a leaf that does not display some of those recondite or
evanescent secrets of human nature which either escape ordinary writers,
or, when found by them, are spread out over volume instead of being
condensed into a page.

Baltimore, August, 1856.

THE TRANSLATOR.

CHAPTER I.

Near the end of July, 1842, an open _caleche_ might have been seen
rolling along one of the three highways that lead from the frontiers of
Holland toward Antwerp. Although the vehicle had evidently been cleaned
with the utmost care, every thing about it betokened decay. Its joints
were open, discolored, and weather-beaten, and it swung from si