THE COURIER OF THE HAGUE.

(BY THE “VACUUS VIATOR.")

He is an elderly amiable little Dutchman in a soft felt hat; his name is Bosch, and he is taking me about. Why I engaged him I don’t quite know—­unless from a general sense of helplessness in Holland, and a craving for any kind of companionship.  Now I have got him, I feel rather more helpless than ever—­a sort of composite of Sandford and Merton, with a didactic, but frequently incomprehensible Dutch Barlow.  My Sandford half would like to exhibit an intelligent curiosity, but is generally suppressed by Merton, who has a morbid horror of useful information.  Not that Bosch is remarkably erudite, but nevertheless he contrives to reduce me to a state of imbecility, which I catch myself noting with a pained surprise.  There is a statue in the Plein, and the Sandford element in me finds a satisfaction in recognising it aloud as William the Silent.  It is—­but, as my Merton part thinks, a fellow would be a fool if he didn’t recognise William after a few hours in Holland—­his images, in one form or another, are tolerably numerous.  Still, Bosch is gratified.  “Yass, dot is ole VOLLIAM,” he says, approvingly, as to a precocious infant just beginning to take notice.  “Lokeer,” he says, “you see dot Apoteek?” He indicates a chemist’s shop opposite, with nothing remarkable about it externally, except a Turk’s head with his tongue out over the door.  “Yes, I, speaking for Sandford and Merton, see it—­has it some historical interest—­did VOLLIAM get medicine there, or what?” “Woll, dis mornin dare vas two sairvans dere, and de von cot two blaces out of de odder’s haid, and afderwarts he go opstairs and vas hang himself mit a pedbost,” BOSCH evidently rather proud of this as illustrating the liveliness of The Hague.  “Was he mad?” “Yass, he vas mard, mit a vife and seeks childrens.”  “No, but was he out of his senses?” “I tink it vas oud of Omsterdam he vas com,” says BOSCH.  “But how did it happen?” “Wol-sare, de broprietor vas die, and leaf de successor de pusiness, and he dells him in von mons he will go, begause he nod egsamin to be a Chimigal—­so he do it, and dey dake him to de hosbital, and I tink he vas die too by now!” adds BOSCH, cheerfully.  Very sad affair evidently—­but a little complicated. Sandford would like to get to the bottom of it, but Merton convinced there is no bottom.  So, between us, subject allowed to drop. Sandford (now in the ascendant again) notices, as the clever boy, inscription on house-front, “Hier woonden GROEN VAN PRINSTERER, 1838-76.”  “I suppose that means VAN PRINSTERER lived here, BOSCH?” “Yass, dot vas it.”  “And who was he?” “He vas—­wol, he vos a Member of de Barliaments.”  “Was he celebrated?” “Celebrated? oh, yass!” “What did he do?” (I think Merton