Ruisdael did not find his typical scenery in his native land: he travelled in Germany and Italy, and possibly in Norway; but whenever he painted a strictly Dutch scene he excelled.

He died at Haarlem in 1682; and one of his most exquisite pictures hangs in the Museum.

I do not give any reproductions of Ruisdael because his work loses so much in the process.

At the National Gallery and at the Wallace Collection he is well represented.
Walking up and down beneath the laughing confidence of these many bold faces in the great Hals' room at Haarlem I found myself repeating Longfellow's lines:-- He has singed the beard of the King of Spain, And carried away the Dean of Jaen And sold him in Algiers.
Surely the hero, Simon Danz, was something such a man as Hals painted.

How does the ballad run ?-- A DUTCH PICTURE.
Simon Danz has come home again, From cruising about with his buccaneers; He has singed the beard of the King of Spain, And carried away the Dean of Jaen And sold him in Algiers.
In his house by the Maese, with its roof of tiles And weathercocks flying aloft in air, There are silver tankards of antique styles, Plunder of convent and castle, and piles Of carpets rich and rare.
In his tulip garden there by the town Overlooking the sluggish stream, With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown The old sea-captain, hale and brown, Walks in a waking dream.
A smile in his gray mustachio lurks Whenever he thinks of the King of Spain.
And the listed tulips look like Turks, And the silent gardener as he works Is changed to the Dean of Jaen.
The windmills on the outermost Verge of the landscape in the haze, To him are towers on the Spanish coast, With whisker'd sentinels at their post, Though this is the river Maese.
But when the winter rains begin, He sits and smokes by the blazing brands, And old sea-faring men come in, Goat-bearded, gray, and with double chin, And rings upon their hands.
They sit there in the shadow and shine Of the flickering fire of the winter night, Figures in colour and design Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine, Half darkness and half light.
And they talk of their ventures lost or won, And their talk is ever and ever the same, While they drink the red wine of Tarragon, From the cellars of some Spanish Don, Or convent set on flame.
Restless at times, with heavy strides He paces his parlour to and fro; He is like a ship that at anchor rides, And swings with the rising and falling tides And tugs at her anchor-tow.
Voices mysterious far and near, Sound of the wind and sound of the sea, Are calling and whispering in his ear, "Simon Danz! Why stayest thou here?
Come forth and follow me!" So he thinks he shall take to the sea again, For one more cruise with his buccaneers; To singe the beard of the King of Spain, And capture another Dean of Jaen And sell him in Algiers.
One thought leads to another.