PREFACE.

In planning the present story, I was strongly tempted to use the ancient method of exemplification, and to present my readers with the Adventures of a Bill of Exchange, so difficult is it to exhibit by example the process of exchange in any other form than the history of the instrument. If, however, the transactions of Messrs. Vanderput and Snoek should be found to furnish my readers with a pretty clear notion of the nature and operation of the peculiar kind of currency of which this Number treats, I shall readily submit to the decision that the present volume has little merit as a specimen of exemplification. Though the working of principles might be shown in this case, as in any other, it could not, I think, be done naturally in a very small space. If I had had liberty to fill three octavo volumes with the present subject, an interesting tale might have been made up of the effects on private fortunes of the variations in the course of the Exchange, and of the liabilities which attend the use of a partial and peculiar representative of

value. As it is, I have judged it best to occupy a large portion of my confined space in exhibiting a state of society to which such a species of currency is remarkably appropriate, in order that light might be thrown on the nature and operation of bills of exchange by showing what was being done, and what was wanted by those who most extensively adopted this instrument into their transactions.

viIn case of any reader questioning whether Dutchmen in the seventeenth century could advocate free trade, I mention that the principle has never been more distinctly recognized than at a remoter date than I have fixed, by countries which, like Holland, had little to export, and depended for their prosperity on freedom of importation. Every restriction imposed by the jealousy of those from whom they derived their imports was an unanswerable argument to them in favour of perfect liberty of exchange. As their herrings and butter were universally acknowledged to be the best herrings and butter in existence, and yet were not enough for the perfect comfort of the Dutch, the Dutch could not resist the conclusion, that the less difficulty there was in furnishing their neighbours with their incomparable herrings and butter, in return for what those neighbours had to offer, the better for both parties. The Dutch of the seventeenth century were therefore naturally enlightened advocates of the free trade.—Whether their light has from that time spread among their neighbours equally and

perpetually, my next Number will show.

CONTENTS.

Chapter I. MOURNING.

During the days when the prosperity of the United Provinces was at its height,—that is, during the latter half of the 17th century,—it could hardly be perceived that any one district of Amsterdam was busier than another, at any one hour of the day. There was traffic in the markets, traffic on the quays, the pursuit of traffic in the streets, and preparation for traffic in the houses. Even at night, when the casks which had been piled before the doors were all rolled under shelter, and dogs were left to watch the bales of merchandize which could not be stowed away before dark, there was, to the eye of a stranger, little of what he had been accustomed to consider as repose. Lights glanced on the tossing surface of the Amstel, as homeward-bound vessels made for the harbour, or departing ships took advantage of the tide to get under weigh. The hail of the pilots or the quay-keepers, or of a careful watchman here and there, or the growl and bark of a suspicious dog, came over the water or through the 2lime avenues with no unpleasing effect upon the

wakeful ear, which had been so stunned by the tumult of noon-day as scarcely to distinguish one sound from another amidst the confusion.

One fine noon, however, in the summer of 1696, a certain portion of the busiest district of Amsterdam did appear more thronged than the rest. There was a crowd around the door of a handsome house in the Keiser's Graft, or Emperor's-street. The thickly planted limes were so far in leaf as to afford shade from the hot sun, reflected in gleams from the water in the centre upon the glaring white fronts of the houses; and this shade might tempt some to stop in their course, and lounge: but there were many who were no loungers flocking to the spot, and making their way into the house, or stationing themselves on the painted bench outside till they should receive a summons from within.

The presence of one person, who stood motionless before the entrance, sufficiently explained the occasion of this meeting. The black gown of this officer, and his low cocked hat, with its long tail of black crape, pointed him out as the Aanspreeker who, having the day before made the circuit of the city to announce a death to all who knew the deceased, was now ready to attend the burial. He stood prepared to answer all questions relative to the illness and departure of the deceased, and the state of health and spirits of the family, and to receive messages for them, to be delivered when they might be supposed better able to bear them than in the 3early hours of their grief. Seldom were more inquiries addressed to the Aanspreeker than in the present instance, for the deceased, Onno Snoek, had been one of the chief merchants of Amsterdam, and his widow was held in high esteem. The officer had no sooner ended his tale than he had to begin it again;—how the patient's ague had appeared to be nearly overcome; how he had suffered a violent relapse;

how the three most skilful French apothecaries had been called in, in addition to the native family physician; how, under their direction, his son Heins had opened the choicest keg of French brandy, the most precious packages of Batavian spices in his warehouse, for the sake of the sick man; how, notwithstanding these prime medicaments, the fever had advanced so rapidly as to prevent the patient from being moved even to the window, to see a long expected ship of his firm come to anchor before his own door; how he seemed to have pleasure in catching a glimpse of her sails through the trees as he lay in bed; but how all his endeavours to live till morning that he might hear tidings of the cargo, had failed, and rather hastened his end, insomuch that he breathed his last before dawn.

Among the many interrogators appeared a young man who was evidently in haste to enter the house, but wished first to satisfy himself by one or two questions. He wore the dress of a presbyterian clergyman, and spoke in a strong French accent.

4"I am in haste," he said, "to console my friends, from whom I have been detained too long. I was at Saardam yesterday, and did not hear of the event till this morning. I am in haste to join my friends; but I must first know in what frame the husband,—the father,—died. Can you tell me what were the last moments which I ought to have attended?"

The officer declared that they were most edifying. The patient's mind was quite collected.

"Thank God!" exclaimed M. Aymond, the divine.

"Quite collected," continued the officer, "and full of thought for those he left behind, as he showed by the very last thing he said. He had most carefully arranged his affairs, and given all his directions in many forms; but he remembered, just in time, that he had omitted one thing. He called Mr. Heins to his bed-side, and said, 'my son, there is one debtor of ours from whom you will scarce recover payment, as I never could. Meyerlaut has for many months evaded paying me for the last ebony we sold to him. Let him therefore make my coffin.—Stay!—I have not done yet.—You will, in course of nature, outlive your mother. Let her have a handsome coffin from the same man; and if it should please Heaven to take more of you, as our beloved Willebrod was taken, you will bear the same thing in mind, Heins, I doubt not; for you have always been a dutiful son.'"

"This is the way Heins told you the fact?" 5asked Aymond. "Well, but were these the last,—the very last words of the dying man?"

Heins had mentioned nothing that was said afterwards; so the divine pursued his way into the house with a sad countenance. Instead of joining the guests in the outer apartment, he used the privilege of his office, and of his intimacy with the family, and passed through to the part of the house where he knew he should find the widow and her young people. Heins met him at the door, saying,

"I knew you would come. I have been persuading my mother to wait, assuring her that you would come. How we have wished for you! How we—"

Aymond, having grasped the hand of Heins, passed him to return the widow's greeting. She first stood to receive the blessing he bestowed in virtue of his office, and then, looking him calmly in the face, asked him if he had heard how God had been pleased to make her house a house of mourning.

"I find dust and ashes where I looked for the face of a friend," replied the divine. "Can you submit to Heaven's will?"

"We have had grace to do so thus far," replied the widow. "But whether it will be continued to us when—"

Her eyes filled, and she turned away, as if to complete her preparations for going forth.

"Strength has thus far been given according to thy day," said Aymond. "I trust that it will 6be thus bestowed for ever." And he gave his next attention to one whom he was never known to neglect; one who loved him as perhaps nobody else loved him,—Heins's young brother, Christian.

Christian had suffered more in the twelve years of his little life than it is to be hoped many endure in the course of an ordinary existence. A complication of diseases had left him in a state of weakness from which there was little or no hope that he would ever recover, and subject to occasional attacks of painful illness which must in time wear him out. He had not grown, nor set a foot to the ground, since he was five years old: he was harassed by a perpetual cough, and in constant dread of the return of a capricious and fearful pain which seldom left him unvisited for three days together, and sometimes lasted for hours. When in expectation of this pain, the poor boy could think of little else, and found it very difficult to care for any body; but when suffering from nothing worse than his usual helplessness, his great delight was to expect M. Aymond, and to get him seated beside his couch. Aymond thought that he heard few voices more cheerful than that of his little friend, Christian, when it greeted him from the open window, or made itself heard into

the passage,—'Will you come in here, M. Aymond? I am in the wainscoat parlour to-day, M. Aymond.'

Christian had no words at command this day, 7He stretched out his arms in silence, and sighed convulsively when released from the embrace of his friend.

"Did I hurt you? Have you any of your pain to-dayto-day?"

"No; not yet. I think it is coming; but never mind that now. Kaatje will stay with me till you come back. You will come back, M. Aymond."

When the pastor consented, and the widow approached to bid farewell to her child for an hour, Christian threw his arms once more round Aymond's neck. His brother Luc, a rough strong boy of ten, pulled them down, and rebuked him for being so free with the pastor; and little Roselyn, the spoiled child of the family, was ready with her lecture too, and told how she had been instructed to cross her hands and wait till M. Aymond spoke to her, instead of jumping upon him as she did upon her brother Heins. Christian made no other reply to these rebukes than looking with a smile in the face of the pastor, with whom he had established too good an understanding to suppose that he could offend him by the warmth of an embrace.

"I am sorry you cannot go with us, my poor little Christian," said Heins, who had a curious method of making his condolences irksome and painful to the object of them. "I am sorry you cannot pay this last duty to our honoured parent. You will not have our satisfaction in looking back upon the discharge of it."

8"Christian is singled out by God for a different duty," observed the pastor. "He must show cheerful submission to his heavenly parent while you do honour to the remains of an earthly one."

Christian tried to keep this thought before him while he saw them leaving the room, and heard the coffin carried out, and the long train of mourners, consisting of all the acquaintance of the deceased, filing away from the door.—When the last step had passed the threshold, and it appeared from the unusual quiet that the crowd had followed the mourners, Christian turned from the light, and buried his face in one of the pillows of his couch, so that Katrina, the young woman who, among other offices, attended upon him and his little sister, entered unperceived by him. She attracted his attention by the question which he heard oftener than any other,—'the pain?'

"No," answered the boy, languidly turning his head; "I was only thinking of the last time—" Either this recollection, or the sight of Katrina's change of dress overcame him, and stopped what he was going to say. The short black petticoat, measuring ten yards in width, exhibited its newness by its bulk, its plaits not having subsided into the moderation of a worn garment. The blue stockings, the neat yellow slippers had disappeared, and the gold fillagree clasps in the front of the close cap were laid aside till the days of mourning should be ended. While Christian observed all 9this, contemplating her from head to foot, Katrina took up the discourse where he had let it fall.

"You were thinking of the last time my master had you laid on the bed beside him. It will always be a comfort to you, Christian, that he told you where he was departing."

"He did not tell me that," said the boy; "and that is just what I was wondering about. He said he was going, and I should like to know if he could have told where."

"To be sure he could. He was one of the chosen, and we know where they go. So much as you talk with the pastor, you must know that."

"I know that it is to heaven that they go, but I want to know where heaven is. Some of them say it is paradise; and some, the New Jerusalem; and some, that it is up in the sky among the angels. But do all the chosen know where they are going?"

Certainly, Katrina believed. The dying believer was blessed in his hope. Christian was not yet satisfied.

"I think I shall know when I am dying," said he. "At least, I often think I am dying when my pain comes in the night; but I do not know more about where I am going then than at other times."

Katrina hoped his mind was not tossed and troubled on this account.

"O, no; not at all. If God is good to me, and takes care of me here, he will keep me safe any where else, and perhaps let me go about 10where I like. And O, Kaatje, there will be no more crying, nor pain! I wish I may see the angels as soon as I die. Perhaps father is with the angels now. I saw the angels once, more than once, I think; but once, I am sure."

In a dream, Katrina supposed.

"No, in the broad day, when I was wide awake. You know I used to go to the chapel before my cough was so bad; as long ago as I can remember, nearly. There are curious windows in that chapel, quite high in the roof; and I often thought the day of judgment was come; and there was a light through those windows shining down into the pulpit; and there the angels looked in. I thought they were come for me, unless it was for the holy pastor."

"But would you have liked to go?"

"Yes: and when the prayer came after the sermon, instead of listening to the pastor, I used to pray that God would send the angels to take me away."

Katrina thought that if Christian had lived in another country, he would have made a fine martyr.

"I don't know," said the boy, doubtfully. "I have thought a great deal about that, and I am not so sure as I used to be. If they only cut off my head, I think I could bear that. But as for the burning,—I wonder, Kaatje, whether burning is at all like my pain. I am sure it cannot be much worse."

Katrina could not tell, of course; but she wished he would not talk about burning, or 11about his pain; for it made him perspire, and brought on his cough so as to exhaust him to a very pernicious degree. He must not talk any more now, but let her talk to him. He had not asked yet what company had come to the funeral.

Christian supposed that there was every body whom his father had known in Amsterdam.

Yes, every body: and as there were so many to drink spirits at the morning burial, her mistress chose to invite very few to the afternoon feast. Indeed her mistress seemed disposed to have her own way altogether about the funeral. Every body knew that Mr. Heins would have liked to have it later in the day, and would not have minded the greater expense for the sake of the greater honour.

"I heard them talk about that," said Christian. "My mother told Heins that it was a bad way for a merchant to begin with being proud, and giving his father a grand funeral; and that the best honour was in the number of mourners who would be sure to follow an honest man, whether his grave was filled at noon or at sunset. My mother is afraid of Heins making a show of his money, and learning to fancy himself richer than he is."

Katrina observed that all people had their own notions of what it was to be rich. To a poor servant-maid who had not more than 1000 guilders out at interest—

"But your beautiful gold chain, Kaatje! Your silver buckles! I am sure you must have ten pair, at the least."

12"Well, but, all this is less than many a maid has that has been at service a shorter time than I have. To a poor maid-servant, I say, it seems like being rich to have I don't know how many loaded ships between China and the Texel."

"They belong as much to Mr. Vanderput as to us, you know. Is Mr. Vanderput here to-day?"

"To be sure. He is to be at the burial-feast; and Miss Gertrude—."

"Gertrude! Is Gertrude here?" cried Christian, sitting up with a jerk which alarmed his attendant for the consequences. "O, if she will stay the whole day, it will be as good as the pastor having come back."

"She crossed from Saardam on purpose. She will tell you about the angels, if any body can; for she lives in heaven as much as the pastor himself, they say."

"She is an angel herself," quietly observed Gertrude's little adorer. Katrina went on with her list.

"Then there is Fransje Slyk and her father. He looks as if he knew what a funeral should be, and as grave as if he had been own brother to the departed. I cannot say as much for Fransje."

"I had rather have Fransje's behaviour than her father's, though I do not much like her," said Christian. "Mr. Slyk always glances round to see how other people are looking, before he settles his face completely."

"Well; you will see how he looks to-day. 13These are all who will stay till evening, I believe, except Mr. Visscher."

"Mr. Visscher! What is he to stay for? I suppose Heins wants to talk to him about this new cargo that came too late. O, Kaatje, I never can bear to look through the trees at that ship again. I saw the white sails in the moonlight all that night when I lay watching what was going on, and heard Heins's step in and out, and my mother's voice when she thought nobody heard her; and I could not catch a breath of my father's voice, though I listened till the rustle of my head on the pillow startled me. And then my mother came in, looking so that I thought my father was better; but she came to tell me that I should never hear his voice any more. But O, if she knew how often I have heard it since! how glad I should be to leave off hearing it when I am alone—."

Poor Christian wept so as not to be comforted till his beloved friend Gertrude came to hear what he had to say about those whom he believed to be her kindred angels.