the way--meadows smooth and
green, and fields white for the harvest, separated by the almost
invisible canals. No wonder the Spaniards held the Low Countries with a
grasp of iron--the whole land is a garden. The Hague, being the
residence of the court, is much after the pattern of all continental
capitals, with wide, white streets, white stuccoed houses of regular and
beautiful appearance, and fine, large parks and pleasure-grounds filled
with deer, and shaded by grand old elms as large as those in our own
land, but lacking the long, sweeping branches. A mile from the city is
"The House in the Wood," the private residence of the queen of the
Netherlands. The wood is heavy and of funereal air, but the little
palace is quite charming within, though upon the exterior only a plain
brick country-house. The rooms are small, and hung with rice-paper, or
embroidered white satin, with which also much of the furniture is
covered. The bare floors are of polished wood, with a square of carpet
in the centre, the border of which was worked by hand. "Please step over
it," said the neat little old woman who was showing us through, which we
accordingly did. There was a home-like air, very unpalatial, about it
all,--as though the lady of the house might have been entertaining
callers, or having a dress-maker in the next room. Delicate trinkets
were scattered about--pretty, rare things worth a fortune, with any
amount of old Dutch china in the cosy dining-room. In one of the rooms
hung the portrait of a handsome young man,--just as there hang portraits
of handsome young men in our houses. This was the eldest son of the
queen,--heir to the throne,--who, rumor says, is still engaged in that
agricultural pursuit so fascinating to young men--the sowing of wild
oats. In the next room was a portrait of Queen Sophie herself--a
delicate, queenly face--a face of character. The walls of the ball-room
are entirely covered with paintings upon wood by Rubens and his pupils.
"Speak low, if you please," said our little old woman; "the queen is in
the next room, and she has a bad headache to-day." I am sure she had a
dress-maker! As we stooped to examine a rug worked by the royal
fingers, an attendant passed, bearing upon a silver salver the remains
of her majesty's lunch.

From the palace we drove back to town to visit two private collections
of paintings. It seemed odd, if not impertinent, to walk through the
drawing-rooms of strangers, criticise thei