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the watch lest some insidious parasite, some unnoticed but strong bias of character, take possession of the child and mould or ruin him. Of the ten boys running up yonder hill, five will be failures, two will be moderate successes, two will do better, one will be great, good, and distinguished. If such are the terrible statistics-and I am told that they are so who is to blame? Certainly the parent or guardian or circumstance—and what is circumstance? One of the greatest of the petites misères of childhood arises from dress. A boy suffers dreadfully if his clothes are of a peculiar cut or a shade finer than his fellows'. I have known a boy made miserable because he was compelled to wear a collar of a peculiar and picturesque cut; and one of my gloomiest periods of mortification hangs round a sash that I was required to wear, which was considered unreasonably broad. The undying laughter of a scornful schoolmate still rings in my ears. When I came home and complained of it, I was made to wear it, to show me that I must be indifferent to ridicule! As if a child of seven could conquer and kill that emotion! The decision was very unwise, for it simply caused me to suffer, and took my mind from greater and better things. Had the sash been removed, I should have forgotten all about it; as it is, it has become the shirt of Nessus, and clings tightly to me through life. A lady told me, a few years ago, that she felt she | had made a fatal mistake in not allowing her daughter when a little girl to have a hoop-skirt; all the other children had them at the dancing-school, and looked, as she thought, ridiculously like ballet-girls, so she sent her child in among them in a lanky robe, which made her look very unlike them. The child was thus rendered conspicuous and unhappy. She wept, and implored, and begged to stay at home, but was made by her strong-minded parent to go and endure. After she had greatly suffered by this process, her mother discovered her mistake, and | found that the subject of dress was hereafter to be her daughter's one subject of thought and interest, while a certain bitterness had crept in, to the great injury of an originally amiable character.

There is danger always, in thus asking of our children a virtue too great for their years, that we create the very vice we seek to cure. If children are dressed like their fellows, costume assumes its proper subordinate position. "It is the skin of the part," said a famous tragedian; and it should be like the skin, fitting, and not otherwise.

If that lady who denied her little daughter the hoop-skirt had been asked herself to go down Broadway in the Bloomer costume, she would have rebelled decidedly; and yet she demanded of her little daughter a courage ten times as great, and inflicted a suffering immeasurably greater.

For children can suffer. There is an intensity about it; like their appetites, it has not been dulled by repetition. One of the few privileges of growing old is, that we cannot suffer so keenly. We know from repeated blows that time will cure us. We get not to care-but oh ! the strength of youthful grief! What enormous vitality it has! how protean its

shapes! I am never astonished when I hear of youthful suicides. The absence of the fear of death -so peculiar to youth, for we get accustomed "to the sweet habit of living," and hate to change; but youth has formed no such habit-the absence of this restraining principle and the love of change conspire to make suicide possible. Then the vision of what grief is; the terrible curtain that mercifully hides the future, drawn all at once; the pang that rends the heart as we recognize the friend untrue, the promise broken, the future void-no wonder that the river seems so merciful, the knife so kind, the poison so sweet! Youth has no philosophy.

I am dealing with abnormal feelings, unwise, precocious, and dangerous sentiments; but, like a wise physician walking through the wards of a hospital, we are all called to meet such diseases, even in our calmest, sweetest, most guarded homes. The scarlet fever does not hesitate to enter the cleanest nursery; abnormal fancies grow up by the most religious fireside; and we who have lived through childhood to rear dear children of our own cannot sufficiently study the subject, nor sufficiently pity the woes of childhood. It would be a curious and useful proceeding for the philosophical inquirer to draw from a number of people their recollections of childhood, and to find out, if possible, what has made the deepest impression. One lady, carefully educated for a ballroom belle, remembers that a practical cousin was held up to her as a model, "because she had painted the back piazza ;" and to this day she associates virtue and painting the back piazza! Another says that she stole down to see a dinnerparty, and, when the beautiful forms of the ice-cream passed her, she clapped her hands, for which she was subsequently whipped. Somehow this piece of injustice has made her chary of expressing admiration. Instances of children who are whipped for going out in the sun and getting their faces burned, and rewarded for going out in the same sun and not getting their faces burned, are innumerable.

It is only the great story of injustice told in different ways, but it might afford an amusing subject of biography, and point a moral as well as adorn a tale.

The ghost-telling nurse, the cruel creature who lives like the ogre by eating up young children, is also one of the terrible, and apparently incurable, evils of our modern as well as the antique plan of education. I do not know that she can be scotched or killed; she should be watched and dreaded. One such, of a literary turn of mind, opened a door for me which has never been shut. She read me, on a certain winter evening, when we were alone in a quiet country-house, the story of a murder.

I bore all the preparations for the murder very well. Even the crime itself, the young men dipping their hands in the old man's blood, the subsequent cleansing of themselves and riding away, did not kill me-for I remembered Macbeth, and was somewhat case-hardened-but, when she got to certain terrible particulars, I think I froze. The words are engraved on my memory:

"One woman, the accomplice of the murderers, was left alone to hide the instru: nents of destruction. She and she alone knew of a secret door, behind the wall-paper. Cutting the paper with a knife, she opened this closet and hid away what would have betrayed them. But, although she neatly pasted paper over the whole until it looked exactly like the surrounding wall, she was betrayed by the shadow of that open door. A woman who happened to be up at that late hour observed from the opposite side of the street the shadow of a door thrown on the curtain. She knew the house well, and was unable to account for the existence of this door. Owing to her testimony, the wall-paper was removed, the secret closet found, and the murderers brought to justice.”

That door entered into my "study of imagination," and has remained there ever since. Why it should thus swing open noiselessly through the ages, and then shut itself, I do not know; but often, looking across a village-street at a lighted window, I expect its shadow on the curtain. The grim woman who remained to perform that commonplace act of pasting paper over the cracks, with the old dead man lying beside her, is photographed on my brain. I have seen many horrors, and have read of many since. Schiller's "Robbers," Mrs. Radcliffe's romances, "The State Trials," have all contributed to paint gloomy images on my brain. I have heard Wilkie Collins read his own "Ghost-Story;" I have read "After Dark" and "The Night-Side of Nature;" I have read the best ghost-story that ever was written, "The Watcher," and have studied with some pleasure the cool and elderly view of ghosts, and horrors, and terrors-but nothing has ever sunk so deep a plummet of agony and terror as did this story of the door. There was a practicality and deliberateness, a homeliness, in that horror, which gave

it infinite power and distinctness. Should I ever have a fever, or an opium dream, I am sure that the door would open and shut against that white window-curtain in a most aggravating manner.

It is another singular childish experience when terror dies. The ghosts depart as they have come; you are not afraid of them, or of ridicule, or of doing wrong; you begin to feel sure of yourself, to believe that you can do right, and that your opinion is as good as that of the rest of the family; suddenly you find that you are useful, believed in, beloved, a personage; and this is, I think (the period of early young manhood or womanhood), the very happiest period of life, much happier than childhood, and I am afraid a great deal happier than what comes afterward, although there is a vast deal of happiness in life; and I cannot agree with Lord Houghton that it is a "dark and weary path which leads to regions never green, dead fields of snow;" but that it has, amid its varied trials and its manifold disappointments, periods of unqualified happiness and hours of great remuneration for work honestly done, I feel and know.

Perhaps our disappointments are sometimes as vague and unreal as the ghosts of our childhood. We learn from year to year that "the moment our wishes are gratified they cease to be our wishes;" that the things which wounded us last year are not hurtful this; that we are always under the influence, more or less, of a chimera. Can we fight the unknown in mature life better than when in childhood we feebly bore our candle aloft through the darkness, and with a meek spirit strove to fight the giants of Darkness and of Despair by saying, in trembling tones, those immortal and soul-staying words, “Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name?" M. E. W. S.

LIVING AND DEAD CITIES OF THE ZUYDER ZEE.

II.

ENKHUYZEN is situated on a peninsula jut. immense sums for its fortification and embellish

ting from the western shore of the Zuyder Zee about its middle, and which we imagine formed the northern shore of the ancient Lake Fleto. Its foundation is assigned to the year 1000, when a few houses were built here. When the North Sea burst in, it excavated a port, which was long considered the best on the Zuyder Zee, and Enkhuyzen grew to be the largest town in Holland, and was famous for its ship-building, its inhabitants numbering sixty thousand when Amsterdam was an insignificant fishing-village. Here, in 1395, Count Albert assembled a fleet of three thousand flat-bottomed boats for the invasion of Friesland. It was largely engaged in the herring-fishery, and its sailors, who adventured far into the northern seas, were esteemed the most hardy and skillful in the world, so that Charles V. would have none others to man the royal ships. Philip II. greatly favored the town, and even spent

ment; but, notwithstanding this, it was the first fortified town in Holland which opened its gates to the Prince of Orange. But sand-banks and shoals began to encroach upon its harbor; and although, in 1591, attempts at improvement were begun, new streets laid out, and fine buildings erected, it was too late. In the next century its commerce had become nearly extinct, and in another hundred years the town was almost deserted. Its present population is less than five thousand, and its port sends out fewer vessels than does the little island of Marken. You walk past the half-ruined buildings until you come to what appears to be the limits of the town; but, looking over a mile of green meadows, you see the picturesque ruins of what was once a gate of this walled city. The walls and ramparts have all disappeared, so that not a vestige of them is left. The gateway only remains, the solitary memorial of

the former extent of the city, which is, however, abundantly attested by books which the antiquarian may find in the libraries of Holland, one of which, wholly devoted to a description of the past magnificence of Enkhuyzen, is a volume of nearly one thousand pages. There are here a large establishment for making the great buoys, of which immense numbers are required to point out the shoals and channels of the Zuyder Zee; and an orphan-house with an elegant gateway, and two large halls hung, or, as we should say, "papered," with the finest stamped Cordova leather. The town - hall, of comparatively recent erection, contains some tolerable paintings, and a number of curiosities, among which are the old executioner's block, which is elaborately carved, and the historical sword of Admiral Bossu. M. Havard is disposed to question the genuineness of this sword. He says: "It is two-handed, and seems more fit for a German footsoldier than for the commander of a Spanish fleet. I can scarcely imagine an admiral giving his orders for the working of his ship or his fleet with such a glaive under his arm, for, as to putting it into a sheath and suspending it from his side, its size would make it utterly impossible." He seems to be unaware that in those days an admiral had nothing to do with the working of his ship; he I was rather the commander of the military forces on board; and history shows that Bossu, in this action, was armed and accoutred and fought precisely as though he were a foot-soldier, which indeed he was except on this one occasion.

Our voyagers visited Enkhuyzen at the time of the fête which had deprived them of their leg of veal at Hoorn; but we do not learn that they were able to come in for a slice from it. The fête was an agricultural show and trotting-races, which drew together a crowd of the neighboring farmers, who attach much importance to these races, to win one of which is a subject of the greatest pride. It gave them an opportunity of studying the holiday costumes of the peasantry of North Holland. The men usually wear a coat of dark cloth. The most notable feature of the female costume is their grotesque headgear, the chief object of which is to hide the hair. As soon as a girl is married, she cuts her hair close, and assumes on great occasions a kind of gilt helmet, from which all sorts of metallic adornments hang down over the forehead, while two curls of black

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INHABITANTS OF URK.

remote pagan ages, perhaps as far as the first centuries of the Christian era. It is said that here stood a golden statue of the great goddess Medea, which so shone when the rays of the sun struck upon it, that Medea blikt-Medea shines-came to be a common saying, whence Medeblikt, and, for euphony, Medemblikt, came to be the name of the place. Be that as it may, it is certain that, somewhere about 700 A. D., this was the residence of the renowned Friesian King Radbod, when Pepin Heristal and his famous son Charles Martel ("Charles the Hammer," whose stout blows at Tours drove back the Saracen invasion of France, and, as Gibbon has it, gave Europe to the Cross instead of to the Crescent) undertook to convert the Friesians to Christianity by means of the lance and battle-axe. The heathen king was brought over by these potent arguments, and consented to

receive the rite of baptism. But, so runs the old chronicle, just as his foot was in the font, and Bishop Wolfranc of Sens was on the point of pouring over him the sanctifying water, a sudden thought struck him: "Where now," he asked, "are all the kings, my most noble ancestors-in heaven or in hell?"

'In hell, without doubt," was the response, where are all who have died without baptism." “If that be so,” rejoined Radbod, withdrawing his foot, "it seems to me better to go where the greater part of my ancestors and friends have gone, than to follow the little batch who have passed to paradise."

Medemblik was the favorite abode of generations of the kings of Friesland, and the ruins of the old castle, their residence, some say that of Radbod himself, still exist. The guard-room of the castle has been converted into a concert-saloon, and high up, in an adjoining apartment, is hung what is averred to be a portrait of King Radbod, painted during his life; but M. Havard climbed up to it by a ladder and found it to be painted in oil, with an inscription in Roman letters, showing that it cannot be older than the sixteenth century.

Medemblik is emphatically the dead city of the Zuyder Zee, almost as dead as Carthage or Tyre. It is hard to say why; for its port is one of the best on the sea, but its houses are falling down one by one, and are never rebuilt. Even within less than a century there was considerable ship-building carried on in yards built by the government, and during the brief period when Holland was under the virtual sway of Napoleon vessels-of-war which bore their part in the naval operations of the time were built or repaired there. The magnificent admiralty building was afterward used as a rope-walk. In 1829 it was converted into a naval college. But in a few years this was removed to Breda, and thence to NieuweDiep. The building is now rented to the village dominie, who uses only a dozen of its three or four hundred apartments. The grass grows in its spacious courts; and the admiralty garden, which boasted the finest collection of flowers in Europe, is planted with potatoes and turnips!

space reserved for a foot-path. The fences, gates, balustrades, and the little bridges—for every house is close to a ditch full of water—are also painted in bright colors. The dark color of the walls is relieved by painting the window-frames a pale yellow or the shutters a light green. Most of the houses have two doors, one small and unpretending for ordinary comings and goings; the other, carved and frequently ornamented with gilding, is only opened on grand occasions, such as marriages and funerals.

"Every one has heard of the marvelous cowhouses paved with tiles and sanded in different colors, where one must not smoke or spit, or even walk without putting on wooden shoes whitened with chalk; of cow-sheds where the tails of the milky mothers are tied up to the ceiling to prevent the possibility of their becoming soiled. Well, it is in these hamlets that we met with these stables and these cows, and a whole arsenal of milk-pails, strainers, and pots, all polished until they look like gold. The peasants are rich, and pass their lives among their cheeses, ignorant of what is doing outside of their village, and not troubling themselves much about what takes place within it, their only care being to add every year to their piles of gold and silver."

Nieuwe-Diep is the proper name for the modern port of Helder, but the streets are so contiguous that it is hard to tell where either town begins or ends. It is apart from our present subject to describe this naval citadel, rather than city, of the Zuyder Zee. Suffice it to say that the great dike which defends it from the menaces of the North Sea far surpasses anything of the kind in Holland, and consequently in the world. It also serves as a part of the fortifications which one would think capable of defending the harbor against the combined navies of Europe. These great works were commenced by Napoleon in 1811 as a part of his grand idea of making the Zuyder Zee a grand naval depot, which should be a standing menace, and, if occasion served, more than a menace, to England.. "I will make," he said, "Nieuwe-Diep and the Helder the Gibraltar of the north."

But we must go back to the one remaining dead From Medemblik to Helder, the extreme north-city of the Zuyder Zee. At Helder we reëmbarked ern point of the peninsula of North Holland, is a distance of only about thirty miles; but as the weather was bad, and there was nothing of interest in the voyage, our travelers left their skipper to bring the tjalk around, while they went overland. The short journey led through the prettiest and least known part of the peninsula. M. Havard shall describe some of its aspects:

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'The pretty hamlets are so curious and so unlike what is to be seen elsewhere that I must devote a few lines to them. The houses from a distance appear to be alternately blue or red, according as our first view is the fronts or the roofs. The ground and even the trees are not safe from the paint-brush. Up to the lower branches the trunks of the trees are whitewashed or colored pearl-gray or sky-blue, and the ground which surrounds the house is often painted pale yellow, with bands of red on each side of the

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on board our little tjalk, and, passing the low islands, or rather sand-banks, of Texel and Vlieland, touch first at Harlingen, the busy little commercial port of Friesland, whence are shipped the beeves, pigs, sheep, poultry, and vegetables, which form no inconsiderable portion of the supplies of the London markets. Thence we descend along the eastern shore of the Zuyder Zee, as we had previousy ascended its western, till we reach Stavoren, opposite Medemblik, at the point where the sea is the narrowest. Six centuries ago, it must be borne in mind, it was dry land northward of here; and it is said that a temple was erected midway between Stavoren and Medemblik, in full view of both places. It seems most probable that Stavoren was the point where the Fletum issued from Lake Fleto, and that its outlet into the North Sea was between the present islands of Vlieland and Ter Schelling. Thus much may be inferred from the

old legend, which we briefly reproduce, and we know of no law which forbids any one to believe as much of it as he pleases:

When Alexander of Macedon was pursuing his conquests in India, three centuries and a quarter before Christ, he heard of a country somewhere, we suppose, near the Indus, called Friesland, that is, "The Free Land." It was a great and powerful state; but, unfortunately, the queen of the country had fallen in love with one of the nobles, had killed the king, her husband, and raised her paramour to the throne. She also endeavored to make way with her husband's three sons, Friso, Sato, and Bruno, presumably the offspring of another wife. Alexander made war upon Friesland, was joined by the three young princes, conquered it, and when he returned to Babylon left them in charge of the government as his tributaries. The Frieslanders, instigated by a priest named Sandrocatus, rose against this foreign domination. Finding the rising too strong for them, Friso and his brothers embarked with their partisans in three hundred great ships to seek a new home. After three years' voyaging, fifty-eight vessels-all the others having been lostfound themselves in the North Sea. The legend does not tell us from what direction they came, what lands they skirted, or why they sailed so far. They may have passed around Cape Horn; but the shortest way was down the coast of India, past Arabia, along the entire eastern coast of Africa, around the stormy Cape of Good Hope, up the western coast of Africa, past Spain, France, and the British Isles, into the North Sea.

Here a tempest scattered the vessels; eighteen ships made for the coast of Germany; twelve were driven northward to Russia; the others, in which were the three princes, entered the Vlie, the Latin Fletum, down which they sailed. On the spot where | they landed they erected a temple to Stavo, the Jupiter of their mythology, and a town, which they called Stavora. Friso remained here, naming his new dominions Friesland, after his old home. Bruno penetrated far into what is now Germany, where he built a town, which he named after himself, still called Brunswick-Bruno's town; while Sato founded the Saxon state. The chronicle gives a list of all the rulers of Friesland down to the time of Charlemagne, who, in 802, united it to his empire of Germany. Friso is said to have reigned sixty-eight years; his son Adel, ninety-four; his son Azinga, eighty; and so on; so that the list of princes, dukes, and kings, of the Free Friesians, as they always called and still call themselves, is not so long as one might expect.

However much of myth or of sheer invention may be embodied in the legend, it is certain that, as early as the fourth or fifth century after Christ, Stavoren was a great and famous town. Its princes entered into alliance with the Romans, from whom they are said, upon perhaps questionable authority, to have borrowed the theatre, the circus, and gladiatorial combats. Still later, but long before the Zuyder Zee was formed, its sailors, passing down the Fletum, made voyages in the North Sea, far beyond any

region reached by other mariners. They rounded the peninsula of Denmark, penetrated the sound, and went far up the Baltic, as early as 825, and in reward were permitted by the King of Denmark to enter the port of Dantzic without paying any harbor-dues. Stavoren was among the earliest cities to enter into the Hanse League. It reached the height of its prosperity and greatness early in the thirteenth century, at which time, it is said, "it contained many magnificent churches and monasteries, and houses whereof the vestibules were gilded, and the columns of the court shining with pure gold."

The beginning of its decay was about the middle of the fourteenth century. "At this time," say the chroniclers, “there was in the foresaid city a certain widow so wealthy that she did not know the sum of her riches. She freighted a vessel for Dantzic, having given charge to the master thereof that in return for the merchandise he carried he should bring back the most rare and exquisite things he could pick up. Finding there nothing in more demand than wheat, he took a cargo of it and returned to Stavoren, the which so displeased this widow that she told him if he had taken it aboard at the poop he should fling it overboard at the stern. This having been done, at the very instant, and on the very spot, rose up at the mouth of the port a sand-bank so great that no large ship could thereafter enter, whereby, little by little, the foresaid city lost its staple, its traffic, and its commerce, and began to fall into decay." If any one should venture to doubt this legend, we can only assure him that the sand-bank, known to this day as the "Lady's Bank," is there to speak for itself.

But other causes of ruin were at work. Fire and water seemed to have leagued themselves against Stavoren in this fourteenth century. It would be hard to count up the conflagrations and inundations. Thus, in 1320, five hundred houses were burned down at once, and the grand monastery of St. Olof, which had stood within the city, was left far outside. Twenty years later the monastery was swept away by an inundation, and its site is now covered by the waters of the Zuyder Zee. A heap of ruins, now called "The Churchyard," or "The Stones," rising above the surface of the water, is supposed to be the remains of the monastery. Of the old city of Stavoren there is not now even a vestige. The present Stavoren hardly deserves to be called a village. There are perhaps a hundred mean houses, all quite modern, and tumbling to decay. They stand straggling along each side of a broad, deep canal, with wide gaps between, growing wider year by year. There is an ill-constructed town-hall, built only a century ago, but now dilapidated.

Our travelers were detained a couple of days at Stavoren, the weather being such as to induce their skipper to avail himself of the stipulation in his agreement not to put out unless he saw fit. Provisions on board the tjalk were getting low, and the most diligent effort only enabled them to procure in the town two bottles of brandy and an exceedingly tough old fowl. So, although the waves were still running high, the skipper consented to brave them;

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