Lothario,—But, my Lord, ... there are witnesses to prove it; and as I am now accused of murder....
Judge.—You must hang for it. You cut up Betsy—you salted the pieces—and you are satisfied with your conduct—three capital counts—who are you, my good woman?
Woman.—I am Betsy.
Lothario.—Thank God! You see, my Lord, that I did not murder her.
Judge.—Humph!—ay—what!—What about the salting?
Betsy.—No, my Lord, he did not salt me:—on the contrary, he did many things for me ... he is a worthy man!
Lothario.—You hear, my Lord, she says I am an honest man!
Judge.—Humph!—the third count remains. Officer, remove the prisoner, he must hang for it; he is guilty of self-conceit.
Shopkeeping—to return to Amsterdam—is the Dutch people’s life. An idle rich class they may have, but it does not assert itself. It is hidden away at The Hague or at Arnheim. In Amsterdam every one is busy in one trade or another. There is no Pall Mall, no Rotten Row. There is no Bond Street or Rue de la Paix, for this is a country where money tries to procure money’s worth, a country of essentials. Nor has Holland a Lord’s or an Oval, Epsom Downs or Hurlingham.
Perhaps the quickest way to visualise the differences of nations is to imagine them exchanging countries. If the English were to move to Holland the whole face of the land would immediately be changed. In summer the flat meadows near the towns, now given up to cows and plovers, would be dotted with cricketers; in winter with football-players. Outriggers and canoes, punts and house-boats, would break out on the canals. In the villages such strange phenomena as idle gentlemen in knickerbockers and idle ladies with parasols would suddenly appear.