neither could he guess. After this the wind grew hot again, and the whirling sand stung the face and hands most painfully. A short distance off a huge, pink-hued spur of a mountain sank suddenly down into the valley. At the foot of it we should dine at a house at Willow Spring. Willow Spring? Could anything have been more charmingly pastoral and delicate than that? It seemed to be, allowing for the well-known deception that the desert atmosphere practises upon one, about six miles off.

"Six?" asked the driver. "It's sixteen."

At the end of the sixteen miles the horses were caked with a Jack-pudding, and every traveler was a pale pyramid, the dust having filled up all the folds in the garments and all the angles of the body. When one arose from his seat he created a yellow cloud that cast a shadow over the entire landscape. It is said to be imprudent to bathe the face and hands, for a certain roughness or chapping follows the application of water after a dusting by this particular earth.

Notwithstanding the disparagement of water, however, one looks about for the Willow Spring. What sarcasm is this! An adobe house, one story high, set under a burning sky, in the very midst of a shifting sand - heap, with an exclosure of cactustrunks in the rear, to receive a name like that! If a melancholy sign, with blistered paint, and a thousand cracks, bearing upon its hottest side, in glaring letters of polished brass, the legend "The Unlucky MatchBox," hung before the door, the traveler would pass it unnoticed, so fitting and entirely appropriate would it be. Notwithstanding this misnomer, however, they give one a very good dinner at the Willow Spring; and, another good thing, they permit you to go away immediately afterward.

At half-past two it was hotter than ever, and it was yet three stages and four good hours to Greenwich at the mouth of Tehatchpe Pass.

The road is a sandy one, and the horses walked a greater part of the way. This was, indeed, the desert. Not a desert in all the senses of the word, for it was not entirely bare of vegetation; and one always remembered that it was a great bog in the winter-time. Yet it was a desert that was capable of filling one with all that peculiar awe that is sure to follow a study of anything vicious in Nature. | That sage and cactus grow there is but the sinister stamp of the guinea. Had the desert shown itself incapable of bearing anything, had the sand and rocks alone constituted it, then the thought of greenery would never happen: but that the struggle of the plants for life should end in the sole production of these two ugly and profitless ones, and in the destruction of all that might have been beautiful and grateful, is alone sufficient to make one shrink with aversion. Besides this one matter, there are plenty of others to stimulate a sensation of distress. The blue of the sky loses the depth of its hue, and becomes pale, as if with the heat that burns through it; a sense of suffocation is always present in the throat; the objects in the distance seem to retire for

hours in the midst of a quivering gas; and besides that of the wind, if there be one, the only sound is the metallic grating of the shining wheel-tires in the sand.

It is not hard, with the help of such realities, to fancy the toil and pain that is the lot of the true traveler on the plains-the man with wagons, stock, and a family; and, recalling these, one feels half ashamed to speak of a desert from the top of a mailcoach running in the public road.

However, the journey was so full of discomfort, so wearisome, and so soiling, that, when the driver pointed out the three or four whitened houses that stood for Greenwich and supper, the passengers fell to laughing from sheer joy.

After Greenwich all was delightful. The sun went down with a blaze of yellow fire, and the cool of evening came on apace.

Once past the station, the road runs into the shaded valley that leads to the Pass, and close by the settlements of the Chinese laborers.

These are far more orderly than those at San Fernando Tunnel. Some of the tents are built upon little terraces neatly faced with stone, and nearly all the villages bear strong resemblance to well-ordered camps of infantry. Most of the people were sitting about in groups, smoking and talking. Some were bathing in the lower brooks, and some were washing their clothing. The cook-houses had put out their fires, and the day of work was drawing to an end. The oaks were quite thick amid the tents, and the dimly-seen groups of Chinamen looked very odd to Eastern eyes. It was something very picturesque and altogether un-American, and one could not help recalling the scenes at the quarries and other working-camps at home, where all had been so noisy and unclean. Even here one makes a discrimination instantly in favor of the Chinese and against the other foreigners in all matters of order and cleanliness, upon seeing the dwellings of the latter, and upon seeing their faces, and hearing the uproar they made in their cabins. For a superficial notion, the one that is to be had by comparing the sociality of one of these nationalities with that of another is very fair. With its sidelamps lighted, and with six white horses, the stage made a fine descent over five miles of a broad-grade road into the great valley on the other side of the hills. At the summit of the Pass the driver showed the outsiders a few needle-points of yellow light far below, seemingly in the very bowels of the earth, and said that there was Caliente. A pocket-book entry again becomes of use:

Have arrived. Am sitting in a seat in the sleeper, in the same attitude that I had while upon the top of the stage. My muscles are probably sprung, for, upon unbending only the slightest possible degree, I sat down like lightning. I shall rest for years, no doubt, in the form of a Z. Am a vast sand-heap.--Ten minutes later: Train has started. Have been kindly keeled over by the porter and am about to fall asleep. Shall awaken at Merced."

THE

HE Zuyder Zee, or" South Sea," is a great indentation of the North Sea, setting southward into the coast of Holland. Its length from north to south is eighty miles; its greatest breadth from east to west is about forty miles; near the middle it contracts to about ten miles. The area is about twenty-five hundred square miles-a little less than onethird of that of Lake Erie. It is the only considerable body of water which has taken the place of dry land within the brief geological period covered by human history, and within a comparatively recent epoch within that period. The Zuyder Zee is a little less than six centuries old.

The Romans first pushed their arms into Northern Germany about half a century before the birth of our Saviour. The whole region which now con

The waters of the lagoon thus augmented began slowly to rise, and a rise of a yard or two laid whole. leagues of land under water. The shallow lagoon, in the course of generations, grew to a considerable lake, which was named by the Romans Lake Fleto, along the shores of which considerable towns grew up, for the great migration from the northeast, with the details of which we are still so imperfectly acquainted, was going on. For our present purpose it is sufficient to know that what is now Holland"the Hollow Land "-was peopled by the Frisons"Free People "-who, in their contests and alliances with the Romans, had come to be recognized as the bravest and most warlike of all the Germanic tribes.

While Lake Fleto was slowly eating its way into

stitutes the kingdom of Holland was a swampy forest almost on a level with the waters of the North Sea, from which it was separated by shifting mounds of sand heaped up by the waves, where a scattered population gained a scanty livelihood by hunting and fishing. Near the centre was a shallow lagoon which received the sluggish waters of the Yssel, the Amstel, and other small streams, discharging them into the North Sea by an outlet which the natives named the Vlie, which in Latin became the river Fletum. Just before the commencement of the Christian era, the Roman general Drusus, surnamed Germanicus, to further his military operations, dug a canal by which the waters of one of the arms of the Rhine were diverted into the Yssel.

the swampy forests of the Hollow Land from the south, the fierce northern ocean was chafing against the sand-banks which shut it out upon the north. Time and again it broke over or burst through them, causing fearful inundations. In 1285 a long and fierce northwest gale drove the waters against the barrier, which gave way far a space of forty miles, leaving only the four narrow islets which still exist. Thus the fresh-water Lake Fleto with its bordering swamps was permanently transformed into the salt Zuyder Zee. In this last great inundation, it is said that seventy-two considerable towns were swallowed up, and one hundred thousand persons were drowned. The shallow waters soon swarmed with herring and other fish, and the towns built upon spots elevated

seas.

enough to escape overflow reaped a rich harvest. The fisheries of the Zuyder Zee became the nursery of those hardy mariners whose sails in time whitened all oceans, who withstood the whole might of Spain, and disputed with England the supremacy of the Upon its shores and adjacent lagoons were enacted the great scenes of the Dutch war for independence and the Protestant faith. League upon league of fertile soil, won by patient industry from the waters, has been, in the course of four centuries, transformed into the most densely - peopled, industrious, and wealthy grazing region of Europe.

Yet there is scarcely a portion of the civilized world of which so little is known as of the shores of the Zuyder Zee. The famous towns which once bordered it are emphatically dead cities. Monnikendam, Edam, Hoorn, Enkhuyzen, and Stavoren, famous in the history of the middle ages and even down to their close, and still surrounded by a region more densely-peopled and prosperous than ever, are little more than geographical names on the map. Their once busy ports now send forth only a few fishing-vessels; and the advent of a stranger in their streets is a matter for nine days' wonder. It is said that there are not in all Holland ten persons who have ever sailed clear around this sea, and visited all the old towns upon its shores, almost in sight of each other. Among this half-score are Henri Havard and Heemskerck van Beest, who made this voyage not quite three years ago, and who have described by pen and pencil what they saw.1

Contrary to what one might at first suppose, the Zuyder Zee, although there is not a rock in or near it, is a most dangerous sea to sail upon. There are within it four little islets which rise only a few feet above the water; but great shoals and sand-banks spread themselves in every direction, covered by only two or three feet of yellow water. Among these wind narrow channels ten or twenty feet deep, so tortuous that a vessel must often tack every few rods, and a sudden flaw of wind, or the slightest wrong movement of the tiller, would imbed her inextricably in the sandy ooze. The rotting skeletons of inņumerable wrecks are standing records of the dangers of this shallow sea. M. Havard and his companion had no little difficuly in finding at Amsterdam the means of prosecuting the voyage. There was not a single skipper who had ever performed more than a small portion of it. At last they found a master of a tjalk, a little sloop of sixty tons, who was willing to undertake the venture. "With God's help," he said, “and a good wind, I trust we shall get through the voyage.' But, cautious seaman and sound Protestant as he was, he insisted upon two conditions: "I must be sole judge as to the weather; if it is stormy we will not put out to sea; and I will not work Sundays." The crew consisted of the skipper himself, his wife, and one sailor. We will

1 The Dead Cities of the Zuyder Zee: A Voyage to the Picturesque Side of Holland. From the French of Henri Havard. London: 1875.

constitute ourselves invisible passengers on board the tjalk as it left Amsterdam one bright Monday morning in June, 1873.

Amsterdam, the busy metropolis of the Netherlands, with its three hundred thousand inhabitants, although now upon the Zuyder Zee, is by no means one of its dead cities. It stands upon an inlet called the Y, a mile or two broad, setting for fifteen miles westward from the southern extremity of the sea, forming a commodious harbor. The mouth of this inlet is closed by the great sluice of Schellingwoude, built of huge granite rocks brought from Norway, sufficiently massive to shut out the waves of the sea, which might otherwise at any time lay the city under water. The gate of the sluice, wide enough to permit the passage of five vessels abreast, is only opened at favorable tide. The real mouth of the harbor, however, is not here, but at Helder, fifty miles to the north, on the extreme point of North Holland. A ship-canal from Helder to the Y gives passage to large merchantmen, thus avoiding the difficult navigation of the Zuyder Zee. Until the completion of the Suez Canal this was the most stupendous work of the kind in the world. It is fifty-one miles long, one hundred and twenty-seven feet wide, and twenty feet deep. But its mouth at Helder is somewhat difficult of approach, and, in the winter, is often obstructed by ice, and the canal, moreover, is insufficient for the increasing commerce. A new canal is now being constructed directly to the west coast, which is to be fifteen miles long, one hundred and fifty-six feet wide, and twenty-three feet deep. At its entrance into the North Sea an artificial harbor is in course of construction. It will be formed of two immense walls running a mile into the sea. Starting nearly a mile apart, but gradually converging till at the seaward end the distance is only eight hundred feet. This, when completed, will form the main outer port of Amsterdam. It is also proposed to drain the Y, as Haarlem Lake, of seventy square miles, has within a few years been drained, transforming its bed into a meadow, thus winning back miles of the old conquests won by the sea from the land.

Our little tjalk, its red sail hoisted, moves slowly down the Y, passing in front of the picturesque city, more marvelous than Venice, built in a swamp where foundations for buildings must be made by driving piles for fifty feet. Nearly fourteen thousand of these had to be sunk to form the foundation of the palace. Frequently these piles have sunk on one side a little more than on another, and the buildings often lean this way or that, like a company of tipsy soldiers. Every street has a canal running down its centre, with pavements on each side. These are the receptacles of all the garbage of the city, and even Dutch industry has not succeeded in making them other than noisome.

We leave Amsterdam behind us, passing villages whose red roofs rise from green meadows, and, at the sluice of Schellingwoude, find ourselves detained until the opening of the gates, amid a crowd of fishing and coasting vessels. Among them is a

solitary little steamer which carries the mails and the few passengers to Harlingen, the great meat, poultry, and cheese mart of Friesland, at the northeastern extremity of the Zuyder Zee, which our tjalk will reach after many days. The gates at length open, and we pass through, heading northward along the narrow channel until long before night we come in sight of the island of Marken, with its seven groups of low, red-tiled houses.

This islet, a mere sand-spit around which one can walk in a couple of hours, is one of the most interesting spots in Europe. Less than a score of miles from the great metropolis, it has for six centuries retained unchanged the blood, manners, and costumes, of its original inhabitants. The general level is scarcely perceptible above that of the water; and a bank a yard high protects it from the ordinary rise and fall; but in the winter it is usually overflowed, with the exception of slight artificial mounds. Of these there are eight, one being occupied as a cemetery, and upon each of the others stands a little group of houses. The largest of these, in which are the church and schoolhouse, is called the village of Marken. The church, schoolhouse, and the residences of the preacher, schoolmaster, and doctor, are of brick; all the other buildings, which face outward from the mound, are of wood, and built exactly alike. To guard against extraordinary, though by no means unfrequent, inundations, they are raised upon piles a few feet above the ground. Above this there is but a single story, consisting of only one room, whose only ceiling is the high-pitched roof, but divided by low partitions into several apartments. One apartment contains an alcove for the bed, which can be shut off by curtains, the remainder serving for kitchen and sitting-room. The walls are usually painted blue, and on shelves and dressers are often accumulations of old pottery, Delft and Japanese ware, the accumulations of successive generations, which, in the present ceramic furor, represent a moderate fortune. Madame Klock, who keeps the little grocery-shop, has, or, at the time of our visit, had, a unique collection, including also some old Dutch armoires, exquisitely carved, the fame of which reached even the Hague, and induced the Queen of Holland to visit the island to see them. We cannot advise our pottery-loving friends to go to the island in search of curiosities. We presume that M. Havard's book has not escaped the eyes of the keen Israelites of Holland, and that they have already bought up all that can be bought of the ceramic treasures of Marken. The houses outside are painted green, blue, or black. The woodwork of the gables and around the windows is white, the whole, standing out against a clear sky, presenting a picturesque aspect.

Marken was first inhabited in 1232, when a little colony of monks from Friesland established themselves on the island of Lake Fleto, for at that time there was no Zuyder Zee. They called their monastery Marienhot, in honor of the Virgin Mary, and their chapel, with a tall, wooden tower and steeple, was standing until 1845, when, threatening to fall, it

was pulled down. The present unpretending little brick church was finished in the following year.

The population of the seven little villages is about one thousand. With not more than half a dozen exceptions the men are all fishermen, noted for the skill, hardihood, and daring, with which they ply their craft, which brings them returns ample for all their simple wants. During the week the whole male population are in the fishing-boats, returning regularly to the island as the Sabbath approaches. On Sunday morning the people of the seven villages troop across the meadows to the little church at Marken. After service they return to their homes, where the lights gleam from every window till midnight. The holy hours over, the families go down to the little port, where their hundred vessels are lying moored. Farewells are said; the men sail off into the darkness, while the women return to their homes. Except in stormy weather, when it is unsafe to put out, those few Sabbath hours are the only ones in which husbands and wives see each other from year's end till year's end.

The fishermen of Marken never marry off from the island; and within the memory of man no person from the mainland except the minister and the doctor has taken up his residence upon the island. The fishermen who carry their catch to Amsterdam bring back with them nothing of the ways of the great city. Men, women, and children, retain the immemorial costume of their ancestors. That of the men and boys consists of a brown vest, buttoned tightly across the chest and around the neck. Overlapping this are full-bottomed breeches, descending to the knees, where they are met by thick woolen stockings; the feet covered with heavy wooden sabots. The female costume is composed of a corsage of brown cloth, without sleeves, richly embroidered in colors, red being predominant. This belongs to Sunday, and when fully embroidered is often handed down from generation to generation; on week-days it is replaced by one of colored chintz, usually with dark-red roses on a lighter red ground. The skirt consists of two parts: a short basque, with white stripes on a dark ground; and a petticoat, descending to the middle of the ankle, of dark blue, with a double band of orange-brown at the bottom. The sleeves are in two pieces: the upper one, reaching to near the elbow, is striped like the basque; the other, fastened above the elbow, and fitting closely to the arm, is of dark blue. The head-dress consists of an immense mitre-like cap of white lined with brown, and richly embroidered, pressing closely over the ears, and tied under the chin. The hair in front is brought forward and cut off square along the forehead, just above the eyebrows, after a fashion not unfrequent among ourselves in late years. Long ringlets of blond hair fall over the shoulders. Indeed, saving for the height of the cap, which is so extravagant that the chin of the wearer is about midway between its top and the girdle, the immemorial Marken coiffure would not look very strange to-day in the streets of New York, however out of date it may be a year hence.