There was the stately tomb where slept the great politician whose blood, whose name, whose temperament, and whose genius he had inherited.

There the very sound of his title was a spell which had, through three generations, called forth the affectionate enthusiasm of boors and artisans.

The Dutch language was the language of his nursery.

Among the Dutch gentry he had chosen his early friends.

The amusements, the architecture, the landscape of his native country, had taken hold on his heart.