natus Erasmus," the humble birthplace, unlatinized Mistress Edith, of his favourite Erasmus, whose wonderful head was so full of Greek, and admiration for the English, and pious plans for reforming the world from ignorance and Popery.

Uncle John found more delight in the dockyards, crowded with fine merchant vessels of 500 to 1000 tons, smelling strongly of camphor wood, and being unloaded of coffee, nutmegs, cinnamon, sugar, and pepper, fresh from the East Indies. Papa, who always watches people more than places, was no less interested in the strange faces of the sailors around. Yellow Chinese, with pig-tails; swarthy Spaniards, with golden ear-rings-sharp-eyed, black-ringleted Portuguese, merry Irish, stout, stolid Dutch-what characteristic countenances they had-what a jargon they spoke!

"The Dutch dolls!" whispered Jessie as we turned towards the station.

So papa, who never disappointed her in her life, with some trouble, found out a toyshop, where he paid several small coins for a couple of the ugliest dolls in the world-one for herself, one for her little friend Amy at home. We then lunched off what papa called bread pincushions, smelling of ham, and, with many looks of reluctance at the gay houses, glittering quays, trim milkmaids with brass pails and wooden shoes, we bade adieu to Rotterdam. William III. is a great hero of mine, but I had not picked out one type of him in the streets.

I wish express trains were out of fashion. I believe we should learn a good deal more if we always used the good old parliamentary. Here we were steaming through a country we might never visit again, and what did we see of it?

Nothing, except that the whole country was of bright satin-green pastures, divided into square fields by the narrowest of canals, with a strip of ground left for the cows to walk over when they wished to make morning calls-that the villages were all neat, and the peasantry as smart as new pennies, even to crinolines-that the cattle were all black and white, and sleek, and far too consequential to look up at us. When we had crossed the Prussian frontier, everything wore a livelier appearance. The eagles over the railway stations, and the crowds of fierce-looking soldiers to be seen at all corners, made us feel that our Princess Royal's adopted country is a very martial and important one.

At Düsseldorf our luggage was opened again, and poor Uncle John's cake-troubles recommenced.

"I'll tell you what, Jack," said papa, "that cake of Susan's will be the death of you if you go on like this. Hand me over your keys, and let me explain matters. You know how I can speak the language-they shan't get the better of me."

So Uncle John gladly got the responsibility of the cake off his hands, and papa proceeded with a very grave face to open his bag.

"What have you here?" asked the officer, looking grave, when Aunt Susan's superb cake showed its best side upwards.

"A work of art-but for such works of art we don't pay duty," says papa, "though why, I can't imagine. It's better than half the things one must pay duty for."

The officer touched it as if it were something dangerous. You must know that the circumference of the cake was considerable, and altogether there was an important look about it.

"Dear me, poor Susan little thought of the difficulty

that cake was to bring," cried Uncle John, nervously; "give it to him, Harry; give it to him-I have done with it. I dare say he never tasted such a thing in his life."

Papa brought out his pen-knife and offered the officer a delicate slice, who first shook his head, then smiled, then ate it, and finally observed that it was sehr gut (very good). I think he was quite as much amused as ourselves. In a few minutes we were off again, and what with dozing, chatting, and looking about us, the distance seemed very short between Düsseldorf and Cologne. We had a real German meal in the Bellevue Hotel-veal cutlets, uncooked ham, sweet rolls, coffee, and Rhine wine, with large dinner napkins and an elegant waiter, who stood behind us smiling to himself somewhat sarcastically, as much as to say

"Ah! you English are stupid people, and I know all about you. You carry your red books under your arms, and see everything, and grumble at everything. And what German you speak!"

Little Jessie fell asleep over her last cup of coffee; but we elder folks sat up till ten o'clock, and were entertained by what I will call

CHAPTER II.

SOME ORIGINAL RHINE VIEWS BY PAPA.

WONDER if ten out of twenty tourists who steam up the Rhine with Mr. Murray's "Handbook" in hand, ever ask themselves, "What kind of people were Rhine travellers, long, long ago ?" Does any young lady in pork-pie hat and crinoline-does any young gentleman with spreading whiskers--ever think of the Rhine, except as a pleasant

thing to enjoy, and as a fashionable thing to talk of at home? I don't know, I am sure; but I have travelled on the Rhine often, and candidly confess to having often found on the way more agreeable company in the past than in the present. Not that I wish to speak disrespectfully. Our countrymen and country women are pleasant enough in the main; why it is that the least pleasant come abroad, I am utterly at a loss to imagine. But the cleverest and most attractive people of history are always at hand to photograph their times for us, to point out old landmarks that have stood unnoticed for years, to lead us through their ruined haunts and tenements, peopling them with giants and fairies, and genii, with heroes and kings and fair women, with knights and ladies and minstrels, teaching us by turns what were the summer tints of fairy-land, the glittering pomps of feudalism, the solid splendours of later history.

Let us talk a little with these old Rhine travellers, as we glide so smoothly by the scenes of their loves, and contests, and glories. Let us learn what kind of a world it was in which they lived and died. This old Rhineland has surely plenty of amusement and instruction to give us, besides suggesting new ideas and thoughts, which we can make the most of at leisure. It is not the amount we learn from books or study that benefits us, so much as the reflection that ought to come after. I would have you always

remember this.

Three little Swiss Alpine streams, one rising from the rocksurrounded lakelet of Toma, a second from the Gämen Valley, a third from the Vale of Corriara, unite to form the Rhine. When I think of the little river rising amid scenes of such rough life, such hardy grandeur, forcing its way so daringly over black precipices and sharp avalanches, till it attains to

greatness, and breadth, and power-till it claims as it were a kingdom of its own, by right of a hardy struggle—I am reminded of all brave men and women who have overcome difficulties and attained great ends unassisted, save by their own strength of endeavour.

These valleys are surrounded by towering rocks, which so shelter them as to keep snow in the glens even in summer time; there is no foliage, not even the shelter of a mountain shrub. The scant pasturage, however, tempts the Lombard shepherds to bring hither their flocks during the hottest months, when their own plains are bare and withered. As they lie in the sun with their dogs beside them, do they ever watch the streams purling and leaping on their way to strength, with a wonder as to their destination? I dare say not. If we who have been to school, and are supposed to have learned all that is right and proper, often see the loveliest scenes without one profitable or ennobling thought, what can we expect of these simple people?

What a fame the river has! How proudly it dashes through the pages of history, with its human pageantries, its teeming fruitfulness! Nowhere is to be found a river so rich in historic recollections. Every league is a suggestive page of history, glittering with banners and panoplies, echoing with the blast of the trumpet and the clanging of armour. Every ruined stronghold is a torn romance, composed by some melodious, albeit rough troubadour; we may read it in spite of the lost leaves, and may learn therein many thrilling stories of men and women belonging to the old old world.

To know the Rhine as it deserves to be known, we must go back to the chroniclers of that half-savage Celtic family who were its first pioneers "qui ipsorum lingua Celta, nostra vero Galli vocantur,"-who in their own language were called