LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 73 



it headlong into a yawning abyss in the Forum, by way of appeasing 

 the wrath of the immortal gods. The name of this modern Curtius 

 was Van Spek, commander of a brig of war in the Batavian service. 

 During the late insurrectionary conflict with Belgium, this intrepid 

 seaman, perceiving that all was lost, and that he could no longer 

 command his vessel under his own national colours, he determined 

 to blow it up and perish in the wreck. He disclosed his resolution 

 to the crew, and told them to retire from danger when he should give 

 the signal. Having invited as many Belgians as possible on board 

 his devoted man-of-war, he made the promised signal to his men, and 

 then went down below. There he struck a light, and applied it to the 

 train which he had already prepared. In an instant the man-of-war 

 blew up, and Van Spek and his enemies perished in the ruins. 

 However Pagan history may sanction dismal facts like this, Chris- 

 tianity shudders at the very thought of them. Whilst we admire the 

 determined courage of the Dutch commander, we lament that his 

 patriotism should be stained by the commission of so foul a deed. 



" Now that so many of our own swamps have been drained, and 

 their winged inhabitants forced to disappear through hunger, or have 

 fallen before the gun of the insatiate fowler, we must go to the 

 morasses of Holland if we wish to improve our knowledge of water- 

 fowl in their native haunts ; for Holland is still very rich in water- 

 fowl, and the naturalist may obtain his wished-for information there, 

 in an enjoyable manner, and on easy terms. 



" I saw- much in Holland to put me in mind of Demerara at every 

 step. The mildness, and urbanity, and good-humour of the inhabit- 

 ants, had gained so much upon my feelings, that I felt a gloom come 

 over me when I had arranged all to go to Antwerp a fine old city, 

 but not much to my taste. I had formerly known Monsieur Kats 

 the naturalist; and on the morning after my arrival, I went down the 

 Rue de Convent to shake him by the hand, and to have an hour or 

 two in his museum. He had succeeded admirably in breeding and 

 rearing the summer duck of Carolina. He told me that he seldom 

 failed ot success, if he placed the eggs under a domestic hen ; but 

 that if he allowed the duck to sit on her own eggs, it was always a 

 failure, for the newly-hatched birds were too delicate to go amongst 

 the herbage with her, in this cold and variable climate. He showed 



