We did not mean to wait at the station; having left our luggage there,
we had intended to explore the town. But there is a limit even to the
passion for notoriety, and we had reached it, passed it. We read and
wrote letters in that waiting-room for nearly three hours.

At Gorcum was born, in 1637, Jan van der Heyden, a very attractive
painter of street scenes, combining exactitude of detail with rich
colour, who used to get Andreas van der Velde to put in the figures. He
has a view of Cologne in the National Gallery which is exceedingly
pleasing, and a second version in the Wallace Collection. I shall
never forget his birthplace.

We came into Utrecht in the evening. At Culemberg the country begins
to grow very green and rich: smooth meadows and vast woods as far
as one can see: plovers all the way. The light transfiguring this
scene was exactly the golden light which one sees in Albert Cuyp's
most peaceful landscapes.

When I was last on this journey the time was spring, and the sliding,
pointed roofs of the ricks were at their lowest, with their four poles
high and naked above them, like scaffolding. But now, in August,
they were all resting on the top pegs, a solid square tower of hay
beneath each; looking in the evening light for all the world as if
every farmer had his private Norman church.

The note of Utrecht is superior satisfaction. It has discreet verdant
parks, a wonderful campanile, a University, large comfortable houses,
carriages and pairs. Its cathedral is the only church in Holland
(with the exception of the desecrated fane at Veere) for the privilege