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 initials of my name in chocolate—my name is Batavus—then I should believe you to be a liar.” But I never saw Van Alphen; he was dead, I think, when he told us that my father was my best friend, and that my little dog was so grateful (we never kept any dogs, they are so very dirty); although I was much fonder of little Paul Winser, who lived near us in Batavier Street.

All lies! And yet in this manner education goes on:—“The new little sister came from the vegetable-woman in a big cabbage.” “All Dutchmen are brave and gener­ous.” “The Romans were glad that the Batavians allowed them to live.” “The Bey of Tunis got a colic when he heard the Dutch colours flapping.” “The Duke of Alva was a monster.” “The ebb-tide (in 1672, I believe) lasted a little longer than usual, only to protect the Netherlands.” Nonsense! Holland has remained Hol­land because our forefathers knew how to manage their affairs, and because they had the true religion—that is the reason. And then came other lies. “A girl is an angel.” Whoever first discovered that never had any sisters. Love is a bliss; you fly with some dear object or other to the end of the earth. The earth has no end, and such love is all nonsense. Nobody can say that I do not live on good terms with my wife,—she is a daughter of Last and Co., coffee-brokers,—nobody can find fault with our marriage. I am a member of the