Dutchman, therefore, smokes during the greater part of his time, in default of conversation—tobacco being, at once, the cause and the excuse for TACITURNITY. In Holland there are nearly as many canals for communication, as there are dykes for defence:—the Batavian is, therefore, eminently COMMERCIAL:—but the limits of the soil being narrow, and the population dense, colonization became necessary, despite of the “VADERLANDSLEIFDE,” and emigration continues though the colonies have dwindled away. The intellectual views of the Hollander are nearly as limited as his geographical. There are no mountains, whence a wide and varied prospect can be taken in by the eye—neither are there academic eminences, from which the mind can soar into the regions of literature, science, art, or philosophy. As it is infinitely more difficult to raise dykes than children—to extend the soil, than to swell the census—so the Batavian has been a political economist long before the science was taught by Malthus, or practised by Martineau, in this country. As a merchant, he is honest and honourable in his negociations abroad—punctual as his pipe in receipts and disbursements at home. Exclusively occupied with the concerns of self—whether ruminating, fumigating, or calculating—he has little time, and less inclination, to meddle with affairs of state. The measure of his patriotism is amply sufficient for an abundance of loyalty—and if “passive obedience and non-resistance” be cardinal virtues in subjects, then the Dutch ought to be dear to the heart of their sovereign. I have no doubt that they are so. It is only a matter of reciprocal feeling—for assuredly the sovereign is _dear_ to the Dutch. Embarking at Rotterdam, the steamer ploughs its weary way through the muddy Maas for three long days, before it reaches Cologne. One night is spent in the malodorous town of Nymeguen—and the other on board—so that, altogether, this is one of the most monotonous voyages that could well be projected. There is not even the satisfaction of finding one bank or place more ugly, or more uninteresting than another—which would be some little variety, and afford some subject for remark. All is puddle-dock in the near, and sand-bank in the distance. Here and there the spire of a church, the roof of a house, or the mast of a schuyt appears on the horizon, for a time, and vanishes again in the blank. COLOGNE.