Middelburg has never known a day’s suffering since her siege.  A local proverb says, “Goed rond, goed Zeeuwsch”—­very round, very Zeelandish—­and an old writer—­so M. Havard tells us—­describes Middelburg as a “round faced city”.  If by round we mean not only circular but also plump and comfortable, we have Middelburg and its sons and daughters very happily hit off.  Structurally the town is round:  the streets curve, the Abbey curves; seen from a balloon or the summit of the church tower, the plan of the city would reveal itself a circle.  And there is a roundness also in the people.  They smile roundly, they laugh roundly, they live roundly.

The women and girls of Middelburg are more comely and winsome than any in Holland.  Their lace caps are like driven snow, their cheeks shine like apples.  But their way with their arms I cannot commend.  The sleeve of their bodices ends far above the elbow, and is made so tight that the naked arm below expands on attaining its liberty, and by constant and intentional friction takes the hue of the tomato.  What, however, is to our eyes only a suggestion of inflammation, is to the Zeelander a beauty.  While our impulse is to recommend cold cream, the young bloods of Middelburg (I must suppose) are holding their beating hearts.  These are the differences of nations—­beyond anything dreamed of in Babel.

The principal work of these ruddy-armed and wide-hipped damsels seems to be to carry green pails on a blue yoke—­and their perfect fitness in Middelburg’s cheerful and serene streets is another instance of the Dutch cleverness in the use of green paint.  These people paint their houses every year—­not in conformity with any written law, but upon a universal feeling that that is what should be done.  To this very pretty habit is largely due the air of fresh gaiety that their towns possess.  Middelburg is of the gayest.  Greenest of all, as I have said, is perhaps Zaandam.  Sometimes they paint too freely, even the trunks of trees and good honest statuary coming under the brush.  But for the most part they paint well.

It is not alone the cloistral Gothic seclusion in which the Abbey hotel reposes that commends it to the wise:  there is the further allurement of Long John.  Long John, or De Lange Jan, is the soaring tower of the Abbey church, now the Nieuwe Kerk.  So long have his nearly 300 feet dominated Middelburg—­he was first built in the thirteenth century, and rebuilt in the sixteenth—­that he has become more than a structure of bricks and copper:  a thinking entity, a tutelary spirit at once the pride and the protector of the town.  His voice is heard more often than any belfry beneath whose shadow I have lain.  Holland, as we have seen, is a land of bells and carillons; nowhere in the world are the feet of Time so dogged; but Long John is the most faithful sleuth of all.  He is almost ahead of his quarry.  He seems to know no law; he set out, I believe, with a commission entitling