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 In one of the slime-covered ditches of that noted fishing village on the shores of the Zuider Zee lies an old barge, quaintly and gorgeously embellished with mouldings once white. It is vaguely and more or less truthfully described as “belonging to the time of the French King, Louis XIV.,” and was in days past much in demand on festal and festive occasions; but its glory has departed, and it lies “on sluggish, lonesome, muddy waters, anchor'd near the shore, an old, dismasted, grey and batter'd ship, disabled, done, and broken &hellip; rusting, mouldering.”

As one passes through this noiseless landscape, unfolding itself, undisturbed by any other sound than the tinkling of the cow-bells and the musical chimes of the