[B] Vide recent discoveries of extinct species of fish found in this den. "Fife Illustrated." Glasgow: James Swan.
[C] Very different this deliverance from that of Mrs Trollope in her "Factory Boy."
[THE LAIRD OF LUCKY'S HOW]
Have any of our readers ever been at the Hague? It doesn't much signify whether they have or not. They know that it is one of the most beautiful towns in the Netherlands, and that it is not a little famous in ancient story; and their knowing this is quite enough for our present purpose. If, however, they knew the town a little more intimately, they would know that one of its principal and most ancient streets is called the Hoogstraat; and that here, once on a time, stood the principal inn or hostelry of the town. It was an oldfashioned house, with a great variety of projecting and excrescent structures, of all sorts and sizes, stuck to it, to increase its internal accommodation, and to puzzle the curious inquirer—at least this seemed a part of the design—who, while taking an outside view, wondered what they could all be intended for.
Notwithstanding, however, the somewhat uncouth and perplexing appearance of the exterior of the Drouthsloken—which was the name of the ancient hostel in question—it was a sufficiently handsome and comfortable house within. Its kitchen, in particular, was a sight; it was so clean, so bright, and so cheerful: shining all round with pewter trenchers and brass utensils of various descriptions, all as lustrous as whiting and hard rubbing could make them. The place was a treat to look at; and no less a treat to look at was its jolly landlord, Thonder Vander Tromp. From stem to stern, Thonder was of the regular Dutch build; which, without descending to particulars, we may say consists, as our readers know, in exhibiting an amplitude of material at all points of the person. In this respect, our good friend Thonder might be considered a chef d'œuvre; for he was of the most magnificent dimensions, especially latitudinally. In longitude, indeed, he might be considered as a little deficient. He was of no great height; but his girth was superb, and told a tale of good living, with an unction which no language could approach. In this tale the ruddy, jovial countenance of mine host of the Drouthsloken cordially joined; and supported by its hilarious testimony the facts therein set forth.
Having thus shortly described both mine host and his hostel, we proceed to say that, on a certain evening in the middle of the winter of 1651, a stranger, carrying a small bundle under his arm, walked, or rather stalked—for there was something uncouth in his gait—into the passage of the Drouthsloken. He was wrapped up in a Scottish plaid, and wore on his head the well-known flat blue bonnet of the Scottish Lowlands. In person, he was tall and spare, with the grave and serious cast of countenance so characteristic of that people whose national dress he wore. Unpolished, however, as the exterior of this person bespoke him to be, there was yet, in his light grey eye, a mingled expression of determination and intelligence, that never failed to secure the respect which his manner and first appearance might well have forfeited. His age seemed about forty or forty-five.
Finding no one to whom he might address himself in the passage of the inn, the stranger held on his way to its further extremity—no trifling distance; towards which he was attracted by sounds of laughter and merriment, issuing from the kitchen of the Drouthsloken, which was situated at the farther end of the passage by which the house was intersected, and the same with that which he was now traversing.
The sounds of merriment by which the stranger had been attracted proceeded from a group of young men, who, standing in the form of a semicircle in front of the jolly landlord of the house—who, again, stood with his back to the fire, wielding a huge black bottle in his hand—were indulging in uproarious laughter at the witty sayings which he, the latter, seemed throwing amongst them like so many squibs and crackers.
At the moment that our friend of the plaid and bonnet entered the kitchen of the Drouthsloken, our jovial host was standing, as we have said, with his back to the fire—a roaring one, by the way—and looking the very personification of all that's joyous, and comfortable, and care-dispelling. A bright and broad red waistcoat covered his portly front; but buttoned so short a way up as to expose a dazzling display of snow-white linen beneath. Across this brilliant garment there lay also the folds of a pure white apron, tucked up with business-like smartness. Dark velveteen small-clothes, with well-polished shoes, on which shone a pair of massive silver buckles, completed the outer man of Thonder Vander Tromp.