And so we come to Amsterdam, the oddest city of all,—­a city wholly built on piles, with as many canals as streets, and an architecture so quaint as to even impress one who has come from Belgium.  The whole town has a wharf-y look; and it is difficult to say why the tall brick houses, their gables running by steps to a peak, and each one leaning forward or backward or sideways, and none perpendicular, and no two on a line, are so interesting.  But certainly it is a most entertaining place to the stranger, whether he explores the crowded Jews’ quarter, with its swarms of dirty people, its narrow streets, and high houses hung with clothes, as if every day were washing-day; or strolls through the equally narrow streets of rich shops; or lounges upon the bridges, and looks at the queer boats with clumsy rounded bows, great helms’ painted in gay colors, with flowers in the cabin windows,—­boats where families live; or walks down the Plantage, with the zoological gardens on the one hand and rows of beer-gardens on the other; or round the great docks; or saunters at sunset by the banks of the Y, and looks upon flat North Holland and the Zuyder Zee.

The palace on the Dam (square) is a square, stately edifice, and the only building that the stranger will care to see.  Its interior is richer and more fit to live in than any palace we have seen.  There is nothing usually so dreary as your fine Palace.  There are some good frescoes, rooms richly decorated in marble, and a magnificent hall, or ball-room, one hundred feet in height, without pillars.  Back of it is, of course, a canal, which does not smell fragrantly in the summer; and I do not wonder that William III. and his queen prefer to stop away.  From the top is a splendid view of Amsterdam and all the flat region.  I speak of it with entire impartiality, for I did not go up to see it.  But better than palaces are the picture-galleries, three of which are open to the sightseer.  Here the ancient and modern Dutch painters are seen at their best, and I know of no richer feast of this sort.  Here Rembrandt is to be seen in his glory; here Van der Helst, Jan Steen, Gerard Douw, Teniers the younger, Hondekoeter, Weenix, Ostade, Cuyp, and other names as familiar.  These men also painted what they saw, the people, the landscapes, with which they were familiar.  It was a strange pleasure to meet again and again in the streets of the town the faces, or types of them, that we had just seen on canvas so old.

In the Low Countries, the porters have the grand title of commissionaires.  They carry trunks and bundles, black boots, and act as valets de place.  As guides, they are quite as intolerable in Amsterdam as their brethren in other cities.  Many of them are Jews; and they have a keen eye for a stranger.  The moment he sallies from his hotel, there is a guide.  Let him hesitate for an instant in his walk, either to look at something or to consult his map, or let him ask the way, and he will have a half dozen of