not its only man of
letters. In a little park that extends to the right of the town on the
bank of the Meuse there is a marble statue raised by the inhabitants
of Rotterdam to honor the poet Tollens, who was born at the end of
last century and died a few years ago. This Tollens, whom some dare to
call the Beranger of Holland, was (and in this alone he resembles
Beranger) one of the most popular poets of the country--one of those
poets of which there were so many in Holland, simple, moral, and fall
of common sense, having, in fact, more good sense than inspiration;
who treated poetry as if it were a business; who never wrote anything
that could displease their prudent relatives and judicious friends;
who sang of their good God and their good king, and expressed the
tranquil and practical character of the people, always taking care to
say things that were exact rather than great, and, above all,
cultivating poetry in old age, and like prudent fathers of families
not stealing a moment from the pursuit of their business. Like many
other Dutch poets (who, however, had more genius and different
natures), he had another profession besides that of an author. Vondel,
for instance, was a hatmaker; Hooft was the governor of Muyden; Van
Lennep was a fiscal lawyer; Gravenswaert was a state counsellor;
Bogaers, an advocate; Beets, a shepherd; so Tollens also, besides
being a man of letters, was an apothecary at Rotterdam, and passed
every day, even in his old age, in his drug-store. He had a family and
loved his children tenderly--so at least one would conclude from the
different pieces of poetry he wrote on the appearance of their first,
second, and third teeth. He wrote ballads and odes on familiar and
patriotic subjects. Among these is the national hymn of Holland, a
mediocre production which the people sing about the streets and the
boys chant at school. There is a little poem, perhaps the best of his
works, on the expedition which the Dutch sent to the Polar Sea
toward the end of the sixteenth century. The people learn his poetry
by heart, adore him, and prefer him as their most faithful interpreter
and most affectionate friend. But, for all this, Tollens is not
considered in Holland as a first-class poet, many do not even rank him
in the second class, while not a few disdainfully refuse to give him
the sacred laurels.

[Illustration: Statue of Tollens.]

After all, if Rotterdam is not a centre of literature and art, she has