The Englishman, on the contrary, ensconces himself in a snug brick mansion, which he has all to himself; locks the front door; puts broken bottles along his walls, and spring-guns and man-traps in his gardens; shrouds himself with trees and window-curtains; exults in his quiet and privacy, and seems disposed to keep out noise, daylight, and company. His house, like himself, has a reserved, inhospitable exterior; yet, whoever gains admittance is apt to find a warm heart and warm fireside within.

The French excel in wit, the English in humor; the French have gayer fancy, the English richer imaginations. The former are full of sensibility, easily moved, and prone to sudden and great excitement, but their excitement is not durable; the English are more phlegmatic, not so readily affected, but capable of being aroused to great enthusiasm... The faults of these opposite temperaments are, that the vivacity of the French is apt to sparkle up and be frothy, the gravity of the English to settle down and grow muddy. When the two characters can be fixed in a medium-the French kept from effervescence and the English from stagnation-both will be found excellent.

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This contrast of character may also be noticed in the great concerns of the two nations. The ardent Frenchman is all for military renown; he fights for glory that is to say, for success in arms. For, provided the national flag is victorious, he cares little about the expense, the injustice, or the inutility of the war. It is wonderful how the poorest Frenchman will revel on a triumphant bulletin: a great victory is meat and drink to him; and at the sight of a military sovereign bringing home captured cannon and captured standards, he throws up his greasy cap in the air, and is ready to jump out of his wooden shoes for joy.

John Bull, on the contrary, is a reasoning, considerate person. If he does wrong, it is in the most rational way imaginable. He fights because the good of the world requires it. He is a moral person, and makes war upon his neighbour for the maintenance of peace and good order, and sound principles. He is a money-making personage, and fights for the prosperity of commerce and manufactures... Thus the two nations have been fighting, time out of mind, for glory and good. The French, in pursuit of glory, have had their capital twice taken; and John, in pursuit of good, has run himself over head and ears in debt. W. Irving.

THE DUTCH PARADISE: BROEK, AMSTERDAM. THE village of Broek is about four miles from Amsterdam, in the midst of the greenest and richest pastures of Holland-I may say of Europe. These pastures are the source of its wealth; for it is famous for its dairies and for its oval cheeses, which regale and perfume the whole civilised world... The population consists of about 600 persons, comprising several families which have inhabited the place since time immemorial, and have waxed rich on the produce of their meadows. They keep all their wealth to themselves; intermarrying, and holding strangers at wary distance.

What, however, renders Broek so perfect a paradise in the eyes of all true Hollanders, is the matchless height to which the spirit of cleanliness is carried there. It amounts almost to a religion among the inhabitants, who pass the greater part of their time in rubbing, and painting, and varnishing. Each housewife vies with her neighbour in her devotion to the scrubbing brush; and it is said that a notable housewife in days of yore is still held in pious remembrance, for having died of pure exhaustion and chagrin, in an ineffectual attempt to scour a black man white.

These particulars awakened my ardent curiosity, to see a place which I pictured to myself the very fountain-head of certain hereditary habits and customs, prevalent among the descendants of the original Dutch settlers of my native state of New York. I accordingly lost no time in performing a pilgrimage to Broek.

Before I reached the place, I beheld symptoms of the tranquil character of its inhabitants. A little clump-built boat was in full sail along the lazy bosom of a canal, but its sail consisted of the blades of two paddles, standing on one end, while the navigator sat steering with a third paddle in the stern, crouched down like a toad, with a slouched hat drawn over his eyes... After proceeding a little further, I came in sight of the harbor, or port of destination, of this drowsy navigator. This was an artificial basin, or sheet of olive-green water, tranquil as a mill-pond. On this the village of Broek is situated; and the borders are laboriously adorned with flower beds, box trees clipped into all kinds of ingenious shapes and fancies, and little pleasure-houses or pavilions... I alighted outside of the village, for no horse or vehicle is permitted to enter its precincts. Shaking the dust off my feet, therefore, I prepared to enter, with due reverence and circumspection, this shrine of Dutch cleanliness. I passed in by a narrow street, paved with

yellow bricks, laid edgewise, and so clean that one might eat from them. Indeed, they were actually worn deep, not by the tread of feet, but by the friction of the scrubbing brush.

The houses were built of wood, and all appeared to have been freshly painted, of green, yellow, and other bright colors. They were separated from each other by gardens and orchards, and stood at some little distance from the street, with wide areas or court yards, paved in mosaic with variegated stones, polished by frequent rubbing... The areas were divided from the street by curiously wrought railings, or balustrades of iron, surmounted with brass and copper balls, scoured into dazzling effulgence. The very trunks of the trees in front of the houses were by the same process made to look as if they had been varnished.

The porches, doors, and window-frames of the houses were of exotic woods, curiously carved, and polished like costly furniture. The front doors are never opened, except for christenings, marriages, or funerals; on all ordinary occasions visitors entered by the back door. In former times, persons when admitted had to put on slippers; but this Oriental custom is no longer insisted upon.

I walked about the place in mute wonder and admiration. A dead stillness prevailed around, like that in the deserted streets of Pompeii. No sign of life was to be seen, except now and then a hand and a long pipe, and an occasional puff of smoke out of the window of some pleasure house, overhanging a miniature canal; and on approaching nearer, the portly presence of some substantial burgher.

After having been conducted from one wonder to another of the village, I was ushered by my guide into the grounds and gardens of Mynheer Broekker, a mighty cheese manufacturer of large fortune. I had repeatedly been struck with the similarity of all I had seen in this amphibious little village, to the buildings and landscapes on Chinese plates and teapots; but here I found the resemblance complete, for I was told that these gardens were modelled after a Dutch traveller's description of those of a Chinese mandarin. Here were serpentine walks with trellised borders, winding canals with fanciful Chinese bridges, flower beds resembling huge baskets, with flowers falling over to the grounds.

But the owner's fancy had been chiefly displayed about a little stagnant lake, on which a corpulent pinnace lay at anchor. On the border was a cottage, within which were a wooden man and woman sitting at a table, and a wooden dog beneath, all of the size of life; on pressing a spring, the woman

commenced spinning, and the dog barked furiously. On the lake were wooden swans, painted to the life; some floating, others on the nest, while a wooden sportsman, crouched among the bushes, was preparing a gun to take deadly aim.

In another part of the garden was a dominie in his clerical robes, with wig, pipe, and cocked hat; and mandarins with nodding heads, amid red lions, green tigers, and blue hares. Last of all, the heathen deities, in wood and plaster, male and female, seeming to stare with wonder at finding themselves in such strange company.

To attempt to gain admission to any of these stately abodes was out of the question. I was fortunate enough, however, through the aid of my guide, to make my way into the kitchen of one of them; and I question whether the parlor would have proved more worthy of observation. The cook, a little woman, worn thin with incessant action and friction, was bustling about among her saucepans and kettles, with the scullion at her heels, both clattering in wooden shoes, which were as clean and white as the milk-pails; rows of vessels, of brass and copper, regiments of pewter dishes and portly porringers, gave resplendent evidence of the intensity of their cleanliness. The very trammels and hangers in the fire-place were highly scoured, and the burnished face of St. Nicholas shone forth from the iron plate of the chimney back.

I must not omit to mention that this village is the paradise of cows as well as of men; indeed, you would almost suppose the cow to be an object of worship there; and well does she merit it, for she is in fact the patroness of the place. The same scrupulous cleanness, however, which pervades everything else, is manifested in the treatment of this venerated animal. She is not permitted to roam about the place; but in winter, when she forsakes the rich pastures, a well-built house is provided for her, well painted and maintained in the most perfect order. Her stall is of ample dimensions; the floor is scrubbed and polished, and her hide is daily curried, and brushed, and sponged to her heart's content. W. Irving.

BADEN.

BADEN is one of the most interesting duchies, or petty potentialities, in Europe. It has an air of bustle and prosperity that predisposes the visitor to think favorably of the industry and morals of the people. The soil is rich and fertile, and the country abounds in barley, wheat, maize, tobacco, hops, flax,

hemp, and wine; and, in addition to its luxuriance, it is extremely picturesque... Baden-Baden, the watering-place, nestles in a dimple of the hills. The situation is just such a vision of foliage and mountains as might be supposed to rise upon the dreams of a painter. The valley itself is so contracted, that the town is scattered up the side of a slope, where it is literally buried in green leaves. The smallness of the valley, or dell, constitutes one of its charms, by bringing it all within the range of view at once, from any of the neighbouring elevations... The panorama is exquisite. The stream of the Oos runs past the town, like a thread of spun glass sparkling in the sun; hanging woods, pierced by innumerable winding paths, clothe the surrounding heights; and the dark pinnacles of the Black Forest range, which takes its spring here, are relieved by grey fragments of castles, that add to the natural beauty of the scene the attractions of many a wild legend.

But this natural loveliness, and the uses to which it is put, are at startling variance with each other. There cannot be conceived a greater anomaly than the strange conjunction which nature and society present in this place. It is Elysium convulsed by low passions and vulgar excitement... Could one go to Baden-Baden to enjoy the scenery with the mental repose it demands, there is not a spot in Germany to which poetical pilgrims might be more confidently recommended; but the pilgrims who come here, and who render intellectual enjoyment of any kind impossible, are not exactly of that class. Turning from the town, - if the clusters of hotels and lodging-houses of which it is chiefly composed be entitled to be called a town, there are ample resources for quiet people close at hand, in the profound solitudes by which the vortex is clasped round on all sides... In five minutes you may exchange the rattle of the dice for the songs of birds in the deep woods; you may plunge into valleys lower and steeper than that in which you find yourself on the verge of the stream; you may ascend the hills by a multitude of tortuous paths, leading to recesses into which the sun has never peeped; you may clamber up piles of rocks to obtain a commanding prospect of the country, or you may ride or drive for hours and hours together, through landscapes of never-ending variety.

One of the first lions to which the stranger directs his exploring steps is the Castle of Baden, immediately above the town. It is nearly three hundred years old, dating from its foundation, without reference to subsequent devastations and restorations, yet it is called the New Schloss, in order that it may not be confounded with the Old Schloss, which stands higher