t the science of Political Economy
had already been discovered.

At all events, it was a long time ago. Amsterdam had no sidewalks,
import duties were still levied, in some civilized countries there were
still gallows, and people didn't die every day of nervousness. Yes,
it was a long time ago.

The Hartenstraat! I have never comprehended why this street should
be called thus. Perhaps it is an error, and one ought to write
Hertenstraat, or something else. I have never found more "heartiness"
there than elsewhere; besides, "harts" were not particularly plentiful,
although the place could boast of a poulterer and dealer in venison.

I haven't been there for a long time, and I only remember that the
Straat connects two main canal-streets, canals that I would fill up
if I had the power to make Amsterdam one of the most beautiful cities
of Europe.

My predilection for Amsterdam, our metropolis, does not make me
blind to her faults. Among these I would mention first her complete
inability to serve as the scene of things romantic. One finds here
no masked Dominos on the street, the common people are everywhere
open to inspection, no Ghetto, no Templebar, no Chinese quarter,
no mysterious courtyard. Whoever commits murder is hanged; and the
girls are called "Mietje" and "Jansje"--everything prose.

It requires courage to begin a story in a place ending with
"dam." There it is difficult to have "Emeranties" and "Heloises";
but even these would be of little use, since all of these belles have
already been profaned.

How do the French authors manage, though, to dress up their "Margots"
and "Marions" as ideals and protect their "Henris" and "Ernestes"
from the trite and trivial? These last remind one of M'sieu Henri or
M'sieu Erneste just about like our castle embankments remind one of
filthy water.

Goethe was a courageous man: Gretchen, Klaerchen----

But I, in the Hartenstraat!

However, I am not writing a romance; and even if I should write one,
I don't see why I shouldn't publish it as a true story. For it is
a true story, the story of one who in his youth was in love with a
sawmill and had to endure this torture for a long time.

For love is torture, even if it is only love for a sawmill.

It will be seen that the story is going to be quite simple, in fact
too frail to stand alone. So here and there I am going to plait
something in with the thread of the narrative, just as the Chinaman
does with his pigtail whe