THROUGH THE GATES 
 
 I OF THE 
 
 L NETHERLANDS 
 

 ^■^~^:^^ 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 
 DJ 39.W19 
 
 Through the gates of the Netherlands, 
 
 3 1924 014 674 075 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014674075 
 
THROUGH THE GATES OF THE 
 NETHERLANDS 
 
THE GREAT TOWER OF LEEU WARDEN 
 
THROUGH THE GATES 
 OF THE NETHERLANDS 
 
 By MARY E. WALLER 
 
 Author of " The Wood-Carver of 'Lympus," "A Daughter 
 of the Rich," '« Sanna," Etc. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS, AFTER LALANNE AND OTHERS, BY 
 
 A. MONTFERRAND 
 
 BOSTON 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 1907 
 
 /f 
 
 c \ 
 
 
■•^V-\ .. ... ■ 
 
 
 \-'?/-!irA'^^. 
 
 Copyright, ipo6. 
 By Little, Brown, and Company, 
 
 j^ll rights resernjed 
 Published November, 1906 
 
 I/' l^ 
 
 GRIFFITH-STILLINGS PRESS, BOSTON, U.S.A. 
 
TO MY MOTHER 
 
 AND 
 
 THOSE WHO WERE WITH ME 
 
 IN THE NETHERLANDS 
 
AUTHOR'S NOTE 
 
 The spelling of Dutch proper names in this book 
 is neither wholly according to the Dutch glossary, nor 
 is it consistently Anglicized; but to give some uniform- 
 ity to the work, the Dutch spelling has been followed 
 wherever possible. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. James and I i 
 
 II. The Stork's Nest lo 
 
 III. Wholly Domestic 25 
 
 IV. The Dutch Oat 33 
 
 V. Holland Within 46 
 
 VI. An Humble Source of Dutch Art . 57 
 
 VII. The Gate Beautiful 63 
 
 VIII. The Miller's Son 68 
 
 IX. Scheveningen 81 
 
 X. Some Diversions and Social Func- 
 tions 97 
 
 XI. The Knocking at the Gates ... 122 
 
 XII. The New Pilgrim Fathers . . . 132 
 
 XIII. The City of the Crossed Keys . . 141 
 
 XIV. An Ex-Voto Offering 145 
 
 XV. Fields Elysian . . . ... 154 
 
 XVI. The Heart of Holland 159 
 
 XVII. How We Saw Amsterdam ... 166 
 
 XVIII. The Don Quixote Country . . . 177 
 
 XIX. Alkmaar's Weigh House 180 
 
 XX. An International Complication . . 187 
 
 XXI. The Port of Hoorn 195 
 
 XXII. An Ancient of Days 204 
 
 XXIII. A Frisian Paris 208 
 
 ix 
 
X Contents 
 
 CHAPTEE PAGE 
 
 XXIV. By Still Waters 223 
 
 XXV. The Rhine Daughters 239 
 
 XXVI. St. John's of Bois-le-Duc 247 
 
 XXVII. Great Head Gate 254 
 
 XXVIII. DORT 266 
 
 XXIX. At the Gates of the Sea .... 277 
 
 XXX. The Swimming Lion 285 
 
 XXXI. The Bells of Middelburg . . . 295 
 
 XXXII. Harking Back to Caesar 313 
 
 XXXIII. The Peace Conference at The 
 
 Hague 321 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The Great Tower of Leeuwarden . Frontispiece 
 A Classic OF The Hague, Vyverberg, Vignette on Title 
 
 Our Dutch Coat-of-Arms Page 20 
 
 "Holland Within," Artz " 54 
 
 From a photograph. 
 
 "The Miller of Leyden," Rembrandt . " 68 
 
 From a photograph by Frans HanistaengU 
 
 "A Toiler of the Sea," Israels . . . . " 86 
 
 From a photograph. 
 
 Desolation, Oud-Vosmeer " 127 
 
 The East Gate of Delft " 137 
 
 From an old plate. 
 
 Genuine Old Delft " 138 
 
 Old Zyl Gate, Leyden .... . . " 145 
 
 St. Bavon AND the Meat Market, Haarlem, " 156 
 
 Amsterdam " 169 
 
 Alkmaar's Weigh House " 180 
 
 The Port of Hoorn " 199 
 
 By Still Waters, Gouda " 228 
 
 Our Dear Lady Tower, Amersfoort . " 236 
 
 The Water Gate at Amersfoort ... " 238 
 
 Approach to Gorinchem " 257 
 
 A Reminiscence of Venice, Dordrecht . " 268 
 A Broken Sea Gate, Oud-Vosmeer, March 
 
 12, 13, 1906 "283 
 
 xi 
 
xii Illustrations 
 
 South Harbor Gate, Zierikzee . . Page 288 
 
 The Abbey Gate .... . . . . " 301 
 
 MiDDELBURG ToWERS " 3 12 
 
 William the Silent (1533-1584), Key, 
 
 Mauritshuis, The Hague " 328 
 
 One of the very few portraits of the Prince painted from life. 
 
 Plan of the Seashore of Walcheren with 
 
 THE Remains of Ancient Domburg . "316 
 
THROUGH THE GATES OF 
 THE NETHERLANDS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 JAMES AND I 
 
 There has been no monotony in our lives, James' and 
 mine. I account for this fact on the ground of our having 
 kept on hand during our married Hfe a large stock of 
 ideals, and living in the anticipation of realizing some 
 of them at some time. And just here I may as vpell state 
 a few facts about ourselves. James and I belong to the 
 wealthier class of Americans, that is, the truly wealthy 
 class which is a large one in our land. Lest I be misunder- 
 stood I make the following statement concerning what 
 we look upon as our assets. 
 
 In the first place we are extraordinarily rich in blessed 
 memories of those who have loved us — who may love 
 us still for aught we know. This constitutes our inherited 
 wealth. In addition to this we made early in life, we are 
 not yet quite middle-aged, two or three large investments 
 in old-fashioned stock, the returns from which have been 
 enormous, namely; a marriage for love fifteen years ago 
 and a block of solid friendships of both men and women, 
 which may be counted in separate shares by five fingers 
 on the one hand, and two on the other. For collateral 
 
2 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 securities on these we have an open fire for all friendly 
 shins that need toasting and all hearts that feel a need to 
 disburden in the flame-lighted dusk, as well for the jest 
 and merry laughter that spring from young hearts, and 
 others that can never grow old. 
 
 Moveover, there is an extra seat at our table for the 
 man, woman, or child who may need or wish to occupy 
 it. It is our memorial to our only boy, and by means 
 of it we have entertained many an angel unawares. Little 
 by little during the years, we have gathered some eight 
 hundred pleasant acquaintances about us who, although 
 they turn their backs upon us from the bookshelves, 
 open out most freely, if we approach them in the right 
 mood, and yield their multitude of thoughts, sustain- 
 ing, instructive, helpful, uplifting, nor ever refuse of 
 their largess — acquaintances worth having, or so it has 
 seemed to me. If I show you above the shelves a few 
 choice etchings and old engravings, of which both James 
 and I are justly proud, I think I have given a fair state- 
 ment of our entire wealth, real and common. 
 
 In actual money we have James' fluctuating income 
 which he earns literally by the sweat of his brow, for he is 
 an architect by profession and a day laborer for the sake 
 of it. In fat years it swells visibly to three thousand, in 
 the lean ones it diminishes to one third of that. I can 
 recall four years when we had only six hundred, and in 
 those four we were richer than we ever dreamed we could 
 be, for the gift of a child, ours for five years, filled them 
 
James and I 3 
 
 with treasures untold, undreamed of. Since then the 
 words rich and poor have their own meaning for us. 
 This is why I mention money as the last item among our 
 assets. 
 
 On a certain evening in November in the year of 
 Our Lord nineteen hundred and five, we were in our 
 living-room which is library, sitting-room and parlor in 
 one. James was reading and I was attempting a little 
 sewing beneath the lamplight. In reality I was listening 
 to the driving of the sleet against the windows and the 
 periodical roar of a northeast gale that, sweeping in 
 from the Atlantic, howled and shrieked as it found 
 itself transiently confined in the strait-jacket of a nar- 
 row street in old Boston. It was a wild night, and 
 as I rose to draw the curtains in order to shut out the 
 chill sight of snow-plastered panes, I stopped for a 
 moment to look at my favorite etching of the great tower 
 of Leeuwarden that hangs over the centre bookshelf. 
 I was wondering if it ever would fall to my lot to see it in 
 reality when James spoke. 
 
 "Persis, I've been coming lately to the conclusion 
 that I need a change." 
 
 "May I inquire what might be the nature of this 
 special change?" I asked without turning. I may as 
 well state here and now that James' need of a change is 
 constitutional, and materializes suddenly at the most 
 unexpected times and in the most untoward places. 
 Hence the lack of monotony in our lives. 
 
4 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 "Oh, a mental change — " 
 
 "Mental change! Likelier a change of heart." I 
 turned to him and looked him straight in the eyes ; 
 whereupon he telegraphed to me by the special wireless 
 marital code known to husbands and wives who are one 
 in soul. I have told him for the past fifteen years that he 
 has speaking eyes, and he has never failed to assure me 
 that it is fortunate for him that he is thus equipped, for 
 in my presence his tongue is an atrophied member. 
 
 I confess this message gave me a shock, for it said as 
 plainly as words could have said: We'll close the house 
 and go — somewhere. And I had just finished my 
 quince-preserving! That very day I had reviewed with a 
 housewife's pride and satisfaction the dozens of jars 
 and glasses of delectables I had filled for the larder. I 
 had put up the heavy hangings at the windows, and 
 dusted every book on the shelves, polished all the brass 
 for the fenders, and prepared generally for a snug stay- 
 at-home winter. Then this deluge! 
 
 "Now, James Moulton, where are you going ?" 
 
 "To just the one place in the world where I can get 
 the change." 
 
 "Where is that?" I demanded, for I was curious to 
 know my fate. 
 
 "Holland!" He exclaimed triumphantly. "I've 
 been planning the whole thing. You know well enough 
 you've been longing for it so for the last ten years that 
 you've fairly water on the brain. Now deny it if you can." 
 
James and I 5 
 
 It was an impeachment of the severest kind, yet I 
 knew I must plead guilty. Holland had been an ideal 
 to be realized for so long! 
 
 "But in winter, James! Holland in winter. Who 
 ever heard of such a thing ?" 
 
 "Nobody; that is why we're going to adopt it, and 
 somebody may hear of it and take it up. This is my 
 first off year, and I can take my work along with me. 
 Do say yes, Persis!" 
 
 "Say yes, indeed! What would be the use of my 
 saying no ?" I must say I was a little irritated that the 
 whole thing should have been planned, even if by my 
 nearest and dearest, without once consulting me. And 
 after all the years James and I had dreamed over it 
 together! It was so like a man and a husband that I 
 lost my patience. 
 
 "If you had given me just a hint of what you have 
 been planning for so long — " I began severely enough, 
 but was cut short by a burst of laughter. 
 
 "I can't see any jest," I began again, and this time 
 my voice sounded a bit too tart even for James. I saw 
 that by his eyes. "It's all very well to be sitting in the 
 bosom of one's family — " 
 
 "Not the bosom this time, Persis; nothing so near as 
 that;" and the Incorrigible actually had the audacity to 
 throw his free arm around my neck. I tried to put it 
 away for I was in no mood for a caress, but failed as 
 usual. I ignored him and went on : 
 
6 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 — "And suddenly by a preconcerted arrangement of 
 that bosom — " 
 
 "Hear, hear!" I gave him a look before which he, 
 to all appearances, quailed. 
 
 — " Be cast like bread upon the waters not to return 
 until after many days." 
 
 James took me by the shoulders, turned me to the 
 wall, and, catching my head gently between both hands, 
 lifted my face to the massive tower of Leeuwarden still 
 unfinished, like a master-builder's thwarted aspiration. 
 
 "Look at that, little mother." It was all he said for 
 the moment, but I understood. When he calls me that, 
 the thought of us both is as one; and well he knows that 
 I must say yes to anything, to everything when he speaks 
 to me in that voice. 
 
 "I had made no plans, Persis, until an hour ago; 
 but you and I have talked Holland so much and for so 
 long, that when you stopped on your way to the window 
 and looked up at the etching so longingly I felt — the 
 need of a change. Now, you'll go!" 
 
 "Well, I may, if you promise to stay for the spring and 
 the tulip fields of Haarlem." 
 
 "Tulips by the acre, little mother, hurrah!" There- 
 with James turned boy again and, making some unmen- 
 tionable pun about "achers for two lips," caught me in 
 his arms and gave me such a hug that I was breathless. 
 Of course after that I consented in due form, and we sat 
 before the grate fire and made plans into the small hours 
 of the morning. 
 
James and I 7 
 
 "I'm going on two conditions," said James emphati- 
 cally, "two conditions that will make for my peace of 
 mind in my work." 
 
 "And those are ?" I asked. 
 
 "No Dutch pensions, alias boarding-houses, for me; 
 and no domestic worries of any kind — " 
 
 "You have so many at home, James!" I permitted 
 myself that sarcasm, for James' inability to wrestle with 
 the most simple problems of housekeeping is proverbial. 
 He has never yet driven a nail straight, and although he 
 is an architect I put in the closets and practicalities, even 
 to kitchen dressers, for his clients — and he gets the 
 credit of being a practical idealist! Idealist he is, too 
 much of a one at times, but strictly practical, never. 
 Naturally I say nothingof this in public for I am so proud 
 of his work, but privately I get just one-tenth of one per 
 cent every time for "pickings." I've been saving the 
 pickings for the long-dreamed-of Holland. 
 
 "I assume you are giving me to understand that you 
 will have an establishment of your own in the Low 
 Countries. May I inquire at this distance what is the 
 nature of this home ? I'd like to be fore-warned, as house- 
 keeping anywhere is not a particularly easy matter," 
 I said with some asperity, for I had visions of a green 
 canal boat, a stretch of very wet canal ending in a vista of 
 mist and bridges, and James calling for his shaving- 
 water and hot towels at unearthly hours. 
 
 "Oh, just a regular home," he said after a few minutes 
 of deep thought and in answer to my question; "a good 
 
8 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 open fire, my books, and lots of hot water. You can have 
 your own way and say in everything else." 
 
 "Indeed! And I'm supposed to be grateful for the 
 doubtful privilege of struggling in an unknown tongue 
 with a foreign servant to obtain for my lord and master 
 an open fire and plenty of hot water!" 
 
 "Oh, we'll get along. I'll turn in and help. You speak 
 German, and we both get on well enough in French. If 
 they can't understand either, I'll try good solid Anglo- 
 Saxon on them. That's Low Dutch, anyway. We'll get 
 on, don't you worry." 
 
 "I won't if you'll promise not to ask for anything 
 absolutely preposterous like hot North Sea baths on tap, 
 or storks' eggs for an omelette souffl/e. What is it now ? " 
 I demanded of him, for his hands were clasped behind his 
 head, his head on the back of the chair, his face upturned 
 to the ceiling, and in his eyes the far-away look that 
 prognosticates the bringing down and bagging of an ideal. 
 I have known it too long to mistake it. 
 
 " Speaking of storks," he said in what I call his mooning 
 voice, "I must make one other condition: I can't live in 
 a Dutch house that hasn't a stork's nest and some birds 
 on the roof; and perhaps it might be possible to get a 
 house with the lines of the roof thoroughly satisfactory — " 
 
 "For goodness' sake, James Moulton, come down from 
 your heights!" I cried impatiently. "If you want a 
 stork's nest you'll have to have one made to order and 
 take an incubator along with you to hatch your own birds; 
 
James and I 9 
 
 but don't lay any such burden as that on my frail shoulders. 
 And as for the lines of your roof, that is your business, 
 not mine." 
 
 James rubbed his hands in his glee. "Oh, but it is 
 good to hear her! Nothing Hke a change, Persis, to keep 
 one young. We'll make it go." 
 
 I had my doubts; but I said nothing, for I didn't like 
 to quench his enthusiasm. It has always been the oil for 
 all my domestic machinery and, besides, was there not 
 the great tower of Leeuwarden looming before me in the 
 northern mists beyond the Zuider Zee ? Were not the 
 bright tulip-fields of Haarlem luring me onward, perhaps 
 to my destruction domestically, but very surely to the 
 realization of one, at least, of my ideals ? Ah, it is wise, 
 wise beyond behef, to keep on hand a large stock of ideals 
 even in the most prosaic life, in the most restricted cir- 
 cumstances, for it may chance that once in a lifetime one 
 of the many may be realized. 
 
 That was my thought as I fell asleep just before day- 
 break. James' last word for the night was: "I must tell 
 Ben to-morrow; perhaps he can arrange to join us in the 
 spring." 
 
 Ben Hardon is James' special younger friend to whom 
 he looks for enthusiastic masculine response. I foresee 
 domestic difficulty if James is to ask many more friends 
 over to Holland for the spring. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE STORK'S NEST 
 
 But where to make the home, in Amsterdam or The 
 Hague ? This was the all-important point to settle. The 
 December voyage was behind us, and, owing to a very 
 low tide, we had been transferred to a tug just as we were 
 ofF Vlaardingen , and were cutting through the waters of 
 the Maas at a torpedo-boat speed. 
 
 "It's Holland, fast enough," said James, as he peered 
 into the dense mist that, suddenly enveloping us, forced 
 the boat to slacken speed, ' ' for it's the wettest thing so far 
 I've seen; the Atlantic doesn't compare with it." 
 
 I went down into the cabin, for it was really too dismal, 
 and first impressions are apt to discount anticipated 
 pleasures. The boat almost stopped in order to feel her 
 way among the shipping, and James took that time — he 
 has not in crucial moments a supreme sense of the fitness 
 of things — to demand a decision in regard to the home: 
 Where should it be ? 
 
 James had said again and again he didn't care where he 
 settled providing he had the right conditions for a snug 
 winter-harbor, plenty of hot water and an open fire. I 
 fairly shivered when he spoke so frequently as he did of 
 hot water; for in the dank, dark mist of the Maas, on a 
 
 10 
 
The Stork's Nest u 
 
 chill December afternoon, in the unheated cabin of a 
 Dutch tug that was half under water, it did seem as if 
 there never could be such a commodity in the whole land. 
 And James is peculiar; that is, he appears so to me. 
 Other wives may not have had my experience. He works 
 well only when he has what he wants. He calls it "having 
 the right conditions." If he does not work well, he is apt 
 to give up effort altogether; and when that point is reached 
 there is for him little left worth living for. I am not logical, 
 so James says, but I am consistent in drawing conclusions 
 even when my premises are wrong. To make a perfectly 
 clear statement: when James does network, my mind is 
 reduced, metaphorically, to skin and bones in my struggles 
 to make "conditions right." Hereafter if I speak over- 
 much and feelingly of hot water and other prosaic matters, 
 I trust I may be excused. In view of all these inner 
 vyorkings, I felt the time had come with the stopping of 
 the tug, to make the decision myself. It would end the 
 suspense. 
 
 "We'll go to The Hague," I said bravely. "I never 
 heard of anyone choosing that city for the winter, and 
 we might as well settle there as any where, especially 
 as this particular expedition seems to be following the 
 lines of a wild goose's flight. Perhaps there'll be a little 
 dry land about the capital to compensate for so much 
 water around it. Besides, you'll be on the spot if 
 you decide to compete for the new Peace Palace 
 designs." 
 
12 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 James heaved a relieved sigh. "That's so," he said 
 emphatically, and squared his shoulders as if shaking off 
 some intolerable burden, although it was I who had 
 assumed the responsibilities of the situation and was to 
 bear the heat of the day — that is, if there were such a 
 thing as heat in Holland. "Then it's settled," he added 
 with marked firmness after my making the decision (I 
 must confess it is often the case with James). "I'm going 
 up on deck." 
 
 At that moment something lightened into the cabin 
 windows. The tug quivered, then shot forward again up 
 the river. I, too, felt as if the machinery of our Holland 
 undertaking had begun to work: We were going to the 
 Hague. Just then James called down the companion- 
 way: 
 
 "Persis, come; come up quickly!" 
 
 I rushed up on deck and, lo, it was Holland! The 
 Holland I had pictured in imagination, that I had seen 
 portrayed in etching and water-color, in paintings of the 
 Dutch School and in the porcelain of Delft. I caught my 
 breath just once, then linked my arm in James' that I 
 might have something more than a hand to squeeze, for 
 words failed me. 
 
 The fog was rolling back into the west. We were 
 moving rapidly in a semi-transparent mist that lay upon 
 the current of the river. All about us was dim, mysterious 
 movement. The mist enveloping us burned slowly into 
 amber, then, dispersing without warning, showed us the 
 Maas at Rotterdam. The river was running red gold in 
 
The Stork's Nest 13 
 
 the rays of the setting sun, the sun blazing golden red 
 from a narrow horizon space of dun carbuncle beneath 
 the black bank of fog; and black, too, against this low- 
 spreading glory, a hundred windmills swung their black 
 arms above the green ribbons of dykes, till it seemed as if 
 a flock of huge rooks were hovering in mid-air and making 
 preparation to alight on the multiple black towers of 
 Rotterdam. 
 
 Within twenty-four hours after our arrival at The Hague 
 I put myself in motion to find our Stork's Nest, as we 
 had agreed to call the home — a concession to James' 
 ideals. James was already lost to the world and his wife 
 in a second-hand book-shop where he was rummaging 
 about for "finds" in architectural plates. I felt this to 
 be a relief, for when it comes to house-hunting instead of 
 house-making he becomes both abject and desperate. I 
 called up by telephone, through the courtesy of the porter 
 at the hospitable OuJe Doelen (it is necessary to make this 
 statement, for my command of Dutch at this stage of 
 proceedings was limited to two words: Hollandsche 
 spoorwegmaatschappi] and ja) three real estate agents, 
 and each had a half-dozen houses for us. But what 
 houses ! 
 
 I scoured the capital of the Netherlands as faith- 
 fully, if not as literally, as the Dutch iverkvrouws 
 themselves. I lost my way on tram lines and was taken 
 back to the hotel in urbaines, the city cabs. These, by 
 the way, told severely on my nerves. We had come to 
 
14 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 Holland hoping to economize, in some directions at least, 
 and here before me in these urbaines were automatic 
 black and white affairs as large as a Waterbury kitchen 
 clock, that in my very face and eyes ticked off the meters 
 as I drove, and recorded my sins of expenditure in the 
 shape of florins and Dutch cents! I registered a vow, as 
 the "clock'' registered five gulden against me, that when 
 I should have found a house I would for the rest of the 
 winter use the trams or go afoot. But the houses! Oh, 
 the houses! Upper houses, lower houses, whole houses, 
 villas, mansions, palaces, but no house for us. 
 
 I found the common run of Dutch city residences built 
 very generally upon one plan, a poor one at that : a beneden, 
 or lower house, and a boven, or upper house. Each 
 dwelling has two street doors; one leads into the lower 
 house which, by reason of its situation, is dismal in the 
 extreme. It has few rooms and little light. The other 
 opens into a narrow passage and upon a steep flight of 
 stairs that leads to the upper house. This consists of two 
 stories, with three rooms and a kitchen on the first floor; 
 the other story contains three bedrooms reached by a 
 second ladder; a third climb brings one to the servant's 
 room in the garret. Throughout the house there are 
 cold halls! In all my experience of house-hunting in 
 many a city large and small, I have never seen the 
 equal for steepness and crookedness of the regulation 
 Dutch stair-case, nor an arrangement of rooms less con- 
 ducive to comfort. 
 
The Stork's Nest is 
 
 To find a furnished house was not possible. Everybody 
 was most courteous and willing to do his utmost — for 
 remuneration; but everyone gave the same answer: 
 " It is not the custom in The Hague. You may have an 
 unfurnished house for a year, two years, three if you will; 
 you may take a house for such a period and have it fur- 
 nished by the month; but let a furnished house for four 
 or five months! — oh, no, it is not the custom in The 
 Hague." With that I had to be discontent. 
 
 "Never mind," I said to myself as, in the early dark — 
 I think the sun set about three that day — I drove back, 
 footsore, pridesore and a little heartsore with homesick- 
 ness, to the Old Shooting Gallery, now the hospitable 
 hostelry on what was once the ancient Tourney Field, 
 "never mind, I'll break the news gently to James by 
 telling him there are Dutch dykes, of custom, of which 
 he has never heard; and to-morrow we'll try pensions." 
 
 I felt for a moment really discouraged, and hghted one 
 of my pocket lucifers to look at the automatic-conscience 
 which had just given a diabolical click loud enough to be 
 ominous often gulden. Then I fell to laughing so heartily 
 at my own discomfiture that I entered the hotel in good 
 spirits. James met me like a good west wind that blows 
 the air free from mists of every kind. He was swinging 
 a key big enough to unlock our Boston State House door. 
 
 "I've got it!" he almost shouted, sacrificing English in 
 his enthusiasm; "I've taken it, too!" 
 
 "Got what? Tal^en what .?" James began to laugh. 
 
16 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 "Not — not whiskey, James?" I confess I was 
 shocked, for his habits at home are perfectly temperate, 
 but the extreme wetness of the cHmate combined with 
 his enthusiasm aroused my suspicions. For answer he 
 continued to laugh immoderately, or rather howl, for he 
 rolled over on the ample Dutch sofa and I piled cushions 
 on his head to smother his hilarity. When he was 
 calm, he told me. I congratulated myself that he had not 
 given me time to tell my own experience. 
 
 "I've taken a house, that's all." 
 
 "That's all!" I was reduced to an echo. "Where ?" 
 I asked faintly. I was fearful lest in his enthusiasm he 
 had rented one of those dismal heneden houses and would 
 depend upon me, and possibly my "pickings," to make 
 it liveable. Horrors! 
 
 "In Scheveningen." 
 
 "Scheveningen!" I was aghast. "Why, it's a fishing- 
 village on the North Sea.'' 
 
 "Just so; and a mighty picturesque place it is too. 
 I've seen roofs enough to-day to make my future secure 
 if I can incorporate them in some of my beach 
 houses." 
 
 "Oh, James!" I fairly groaned; for when he begins on 
 architectural lines he is always sure to be off his base in 
 all things practical. 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 "We can't live like storks on roofs, you know that as 
 well as I; if you'd been climbing up to as many of them 
 
The Stork's Nest n 
 
 as I have the last two days in these dreadful hoven houses, 
 you would understand my feelings about roofs." 
 
 "No hoven houses for me, my dear; I've taken a villa." 
 
 "A villa! Is it convenient?" I asked a little severely. 
 
 "Well, I can't tell you so very much in detail about 
 the inside, but the outside is really beautiful: solid brick, 
 whitewashed, moss-green tiled roof with just a line of 
 Venetian red showing along the eaves — " 
 
 "Oh, James!" It was a wail this time; I could not 
 help it. 
 
 "Yes, Persis, you will love it. There's English ivy by 
 the dozen square yards all over the walls, and a big 
 holly hedge in front; it harmonizes with the roof — " 
 
 "Stop this very minute, James Moulton, and tell me 
 if there is a decent kitchen and a room that is dry, and how 
 many there are." I have to bring him down from his 
 heights abruptly. It is the only way to make him feel the 
 jar of the fall. My last remark really brought him to 
 himself. 
 
 "Honestly, Persis, I can't say; but there are rooms 
 enough, seven or eight, and an extra one for Ben when 
 he comes. I looked through them and they seemed all 
 right; and — and — I think, yes, I'm sure the man said 
 every convenience. There's a bathroom anywzy, I made 
 sure of that. Of course I took his word for the inside; 
 but I examined the outside thoroughly I assure you. 
 Everything is in apple-pie order without disturbing the 
 harmony — " 
 
18 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 "There you go again, James Moulton. Do come 
 down to the practical and tell me for how long you've 
 taken it." 
 
 "For seven months. He wouldn't let it for less." 
 
 "And you've engaged that house for seven months 
 without knowing whether we shall like it or not ? Well, 
 I never!" 
 
 "Like it .? Why, of course you'll like it and be mighty 
 sorry to leave it, too." I was silent; for I have learned 
 that speech is indiscretion when one's enthusiastic hus- 
 band takes too much for granted. James looked a little 
 crestfallen. Seeing that, I asked: 
 
 "When do we move in ?" He brightened again. 
 
 "Oh, to-morrow morning. We'll go out there as soon 
 as it's light enough, about eleven, and you can put things 
 to rights while I run back into town to secure those 
 plates on French chateaux I had sent up on approval 
 last night. Come, let's have dinner and drink success to 
 our Stork's Nest." I humored him, but I determined to 
 drive out alone to The Stork's Nest, for James always 
 confuses me more than he helps when he has architectural 
 plates on his mind; besides, I wanted to be alone in case 
 the house should prove a disappointment to me. I felt 
 in duty bound as a good wife not to discourage him 
 by letting him see this. 
 
 Scheveningen! What a word to conjure with! And 
 its magic is the magic of woods and waters, of homes 
 
The Stork's Nest 19 
 
 that would serve for illustrations in A Thousand and 
 One Nights, and of a simple fishing village that literally 
 lives from the largess of the North Sea, vsrhich dominates 
 it spiritually as well as physically. I began to realize 
 what a magical word it is, as I drove out from The Hague 
 that December noon and turned into the Old Schevenin- 
 gen Road that runs straight for a mile and a half, beneath 
 one of the eight aisles of magnificent forest trees, to the 
 fishing-village by the sea. The low, pale sunshine of 
 Holland's short winter days struck athwart the myriad 
 sturdy boles that showed bright green — the color of eel- 
 grass as seen beneath clear sea-water — in the magical 
 light of an atmosphere which is unlike anything known to 
 us across the ocean. Here on this long avenue, unique in 
 Europe it is said, there is no solitude, but life, life every 
 where. Scheveningen women by the dozen Hghten the 
 long, green arcades with their immaculate white caps, their 
 glistening gold cap-pins, and the broad, silver bands 
 that hold the hair in place. The full capes, falling below 
 the waist, are of all colors : mauve, pink, pea-green, purple, 
 burnt-sienna brown, Gobelin blue, pomegranate — 
 every one a tint an old master might have envied. They 
 leave an impression of tropical brightness of movement 
 in this almost unreal woodland setting. The swing of 
 their multitudinous petticoats, thirteen for the well-to-do 
 among them, has something of the placid rise and fall 
 of the great fishing-boats when they rest Hke gulls on 
 the slow swell of the North Sea. 
 
20 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 My wonder increased as we turned into the avenue 
 leading to a height of land in the woods. Everywhere 
 about me were beautiful villas, the walls graced with 
 masses of English ivy. The hedges surrounding them, 
 of thrifty holly or shining oleander, were glistening in the 
 sunshine, the lawns, in which they were set, green with 
 the grass that is nourished by continual moisture. Here 
 and there a gay marigold still bloomed among the 
 universal green. Once I saw two pink rosebuds just 
 about to open. Holly berries and roses, marigolds and 
 oleander hedges, and everywhere the columned green 
 aisles of the forest trees. I was not prepared for these. 
 
 The villas were soon left behind. Another turn and the 
 transformation was completed. We were on a slight 
 elevation, in a plantation of young pine, overlooking the 
 wide-stretching Scheveningen woods which lay behind 
 me. Before me, miles to the north, spread the "Sahara" 
 of the famous North Sea dunes. Beneath me there was 
 an irregular huddle of tiny roofs, red, and black, their 
 crooked lines of continuance marking the lanes and alleys, 
 the "closes," even, of the fishing-village. Beyond all was 
 the sea, opalescent under the changing lights of the low 
 sun. 
 
 But, oh. The Stork's Nest! I was at the very door 
 before I knew it to be my own. It was, as James had 
 said, satisfactorily charming. A holly hedge ran zig-zag 
 before it, and behind it the pines formed a low back- 
 ground for the white, ivy-draped walls. A little garden 
 
OUR DUTCH COAT~OF-ARMS 
 
The Stork's Nest 21 
 
 at the side counted three winding gravel paths, and all 
 of them led to a high wrought-iron gate in the ivy-covered 
 fence. It stood open, and through it I caught a glimpse 
 of the great dunes reaching into and blending with the 
 gray of the sea. 
 
 But what of the within ? I unlocked the front door, 
 and then went my way on a tour of inspection. It is 
 strange, but I have remarked it often: I can strain every 
 nerve following my own practical methods in order to 
 attain to some desired end or to carry out a certain under- 
 taking, and when, at last, I find myself both confounded 
 and worn out by the balking of stiff-necked circumstance, 
 James will suddenl}? appear upon the scene with all the 
 enthusiasm of a boy, to inform me that it fell in his way 
 to secure in a moment what I had been struggling for 
 days to obtain! This process was repeated in the finding 
 of The Stork's Nest. It has always passed my compre- 
 hension how James brought it all about. His account of 
 it has lacked a certain coherence; but putting two and 
 three together, I made out that he met a man at the 
 second-hand bookshop in The Hague, and the two found 
 common ground in architecture. This man had a friend 
 who owned a villa in Scheveningen. The friend had gone 
 to the East Indies for a year, and James' acquaintance- 
 of-the-bookshop was left in charge of the estate, hence 
 he felt at liberty to rent it to us. 
 
 Privately I have my doubts whether the gentleman in 
 the East Indies ever had knowledge of his tenants; but 
 
22 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 James paid the rent in advance, and a paid house rent 
 for seven months gives one a certain audacious confidence 
 in future possession. In view of this fact, I accepted 
 what the gods had seen fit to provide and ceased to probe 
 further into the matter. 
 
 When I had looked at The Stork's Nest until I was 
 nearly dazed by what I saw, I sat down by the window 
 that overlooks the village and took, as it were, account 
 of stock. It was beyond my wildest dreams of Holland, 
 or any other place, that I should ever be mistress of a 
 villa that held such treasures as this nest of ours. I must 
 own to a feeling of supreme satisfaction that I could for 
 once in my life, if only transiently, indulge all my pride 
 of housewifery and revel, not only in an immaculate 
 yellow-tiled kitchen below, supplied with quantities of 
 porcelain and brass, but feast my eyes on the many 
 pieces of fine old mahogany that made our large living- 
 rooms look like copperplates of old Dutch interiors. 
 And all this for fifty-five dollars a month. 
 
 Fancy sitting at a window that formed the entire side 
 of the dining-room, its dimensions thirteen by sixteen 
 feet, and a French casement at that! It looked to the 
 village, and I preempted it at once by pinning a paper on 
 it to that effect. I knew I should have no chance if James 
 happened to secure it first. This pinning on of papers 
 is a way we have of not interfering with each other's 
 special "finds. " I began to be glad that he had not taken 
 the time to discover the beauties of the interior. 
 
The Stork's Nest 23 
 
 It would be idle to catalogue them. Doubtless they 
 would be uninteresting to others; but the great mirrors 
 in their carved frames, the mahogany wall-tables with 
 fluted sliding doors, the ponderous desk of the same 
 wood, the drawers inlaid with tiny round tiles of exquisite 
 workmanship, the huge antique lamps of blue faience, and 
 of beaten brass, the carved cabinets, the old china, 
 the thick rugs of unique design were treasured by me 
 not only for their intrinsic worth, but for the delight they 
 afforded my inner and outer eyes. Even the Dutch 
 coalhod came in for a goodly share of admiration; for 
 unlike other earthly scuttles it was shaped and glazed like 
 a tortoise, low, ample, its broad curved back lending to 
 the open fire in the Hving-room a look of Dutch solidity 
 that, in all the animal kingdom, only a turtle can give. 
 And there was an open fire! When I saw it one burden 
 rolled from off my shoulders, and, barring the hot water, I 
 should for that moment at least have seen everything 
 through rose-colored spectacles. 
 
 But that Dutch kitchen! It was a subject for a Dutch 
 painter of still-life. Only one thing about it troubled me: 
 it was too still, too cool, too restful for the domestic eye. 
 Everything harmonized. Except for a kind of wooden 
 dais some eight feet square, which was covered with a 
 fringed rug of royal red and placed against the farther 
 wall, it was a symphony in white and yellow, from the 
 tiled floor and yellow and white porcelain dishes, to the 
 arched white ceiling and the cooking utensils of shining 
 
24 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 brass that hung on the walls. Yet the vaunted "warm 
 hearth" seemed to be wanting. I judged the temperature 
 to be about that of a cold storage warehouse, and as I 
 dimbed the almost impossible kitchen flight in a mist 
 formed by my own labored breathing, I perceived that 
 mist of some kind is first rather than second nature in 
 Holland. I felt this subterranean chill for several 
 minutes after I sat down at my window to watch for 
 James. It was to be his initial home-coming in Holland, 
 and I wanted to be on hand to hug him on the installment 
 plan just to give vent to my gratitude for The Stork's 
 Nest. 
 
 As I watched the twilight deepen into dusk, below in 
 the village a tiny light shone out here and there from 
 street or alley. I opened the great casement. There was 
 no wind; only a rush of soft air as from a deep breathing 
 of the great North Sea. Now and then there was 
 mingled with it the odor of burning turf from the chirnney 
 pots of the peasants' huts beneath me. I heard the 
 clipper-clapper-clip of innumerable wooden shoes on the 
 brick pavements. The voices of children rose shrill in 
 their play. Some belated, home-coming rooks, cawing 
 loudly, flew low over the darkening roofs towards the 
 Scheveningen woods. Then, somewhere near me, clear, 
 sweet, high, a bell rang the Angelus. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 WHOLLY DOMESTIC 
 
 Never, never shall I forget James's first Dutch home- 
 coming! It can be summed up in six words: it was so 
 Hke a man. An urbaine, piled high with our baggage, 
 stopped at the gate in the holly hedge. I was there to 
 welcome the occupant, who seemed loath to leave the 
 vehicle. 
 
 "Oh, James, it's perfect!" I cried, thrusting an arm 
 in at the window to give him a preliminary pat on the 
 back. He could not respond as his arms were full; so, 
 too, was the extra seat; so, likewise, the floor. 
 
 "Let me help. Whatever have you got in here ?" 
 
 "Now, one at a time, my dear girl," said James, 
 working his way out rather laboriously; "I knew we'd 
 need provisioning for to-night and to-morrow. Here, 
 lend a hand, and take what's on the seat. I'll go in with 
 these." 
 
 In the pride of his knowledge that he was providing 
 for his family, he led the way into the house where 
 we deposited the mysterious packages on the dining- 
 room table. I left him to wrestle with the trunks, and 
 made it my business to open the bundles large and small. 
 If I make the statement that there were, in all, fully two 
 
 25 
 
26 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 yards of various kinds of sausage, including Bologna and 
 leberwurst, I do not exaggerate. James is nothing if not 
 generous. In addition, there were two loaves of bread, 
 a meter each in length, two boxes of Russian caviare, one 
 small keg of sauerkraut, six bottles of Pilsener beer, one 
 full moon of a Dutch cheese, in weight about ten pounds, 
 one bag of unground coffee, two boxes of cigars, and two 
 pounds of hopjes — a kind of black, burnt, butter-scotch 
 candy made in The Hague and peculiar to it. 
 
 Now I leave this list for a study, with but one question- 
 ing commentary, to any disinterested or interested appre- 
 ciator of certain masculine tendencies: Wasn't it just 
 like a man ? Poor fellow, he had done his best and I 
 could not find it in my heart to tell him other than 
 if he had been intending to provide hospitably for a 
 "stag supper," he could not have done better. He looked 
 doubtful over my compliment, but his doubts did not 
 affect his appetite. 
 
 It would be far easier to omit the chronicles 
 of our struggles for the next ten days in our efforts 
 to establish our housekeeping on a firm basis, that 
 is, on the basis of food and fuel; but the omission would 
 not leave enough to the imagination. It was in fact the 
 maximum of effort and the minimum of result, and no 
 imagination could do justice to the reality. Those who 
 know Holland without, the artistic allurements of its unique 
 waterways, the fascination of its moated cities, the quaint 
 charm of its islands and fishing hamlets, know but the 
 lesser half. To know it from within is to take the deus 
 
Wholly Domestic 27 
 
 ex machina by the hand, and make such intimate acquaint- 
 ance with a life so foreign to ours, that the ways of Paris, 
 Berhn, Munich, and Florence are as our next door 
 neighbors' in comparison. 
 
 For several nights we took turns in sitting up with the 
 stoves, or kachels. " Kachel-wakes " James dubbed 
 them. A Dutch stove is the smallest iron object I know 
 that can generate the most heat on the least quantity of 
 coke, and sulk the longest before it is willing to do it. 
 Moreover, it needs constant companionship — human, as 
 a matter of course. Lacking this, it has a curious way of 
 disappointing one's expectations. We had frequent 
 consultations on this subject and many experiences with 
 the subject matter. The relation of one of them will 
 suffice. 
 
 I had been coaxing the fire in the kitchen stove and 
 had re-made it three times before it so much as blinked at 
 me. I appeal to any of my own countrywomen, who are 
 housekeepers and appreciate a good range, to put them- 
 selves for a quarter of an hour in sympathy with me and 
 my struggles. How would it seem to you to find a firebox 
 four inches deep and four inches square at the bottom, 
 hidden under the one cooking hole of a range four or five 
 feet long and proportionately high ? Howwould you feel, 
 with an abnormally healthy family, consisting of a hus- 
 band, famishing above you, to attempt of a cool, damp, 
 dark, winter morning to build a fire in such an ark with 
 a few dainty pieces of wood the size of chopsticks, and a 
 something that resembles a twisted stick of molasses 
 
28 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 candy ? There are a few things which can be left to the 
 woman's imagination; a man's cannot compass them. 
 Such an experience is one of them. I had insisted upon 
 making the kitchen fire myself. I knew James would 
 have no patience, and fret himself into a fever over it. I 
 told him to attend to the stove in the living-room. 
 
 In my discouragement I went upstairs to warm myself 
 and find comfort with my companion in discomfort who, 
 by the noise, was evidently having his Waterloo with the 
 other kachels. James was looking almost desperate, as 
 well as wholly mad; I use the word advisedly. 
 
 "What's the matter, James.? Won't it go.?" I asked 
 with real sympathy. 
 
 "Go, no! I believe the thing is playing possum. I 
 got sight of a live coal ten minutes ago, but it's gone back 
 on me." He poked, and shook, and rattled until I thought 
 the little kachel would be driven off its legs. I sat round 
 and looked on, now and then, only, venturing a suggestion. 
 
 "Let me try, perhaps I can coax it," I said at last, 
 kneeling beside him. "Here, give me the poker." 
 
 " Poker! You call that straight twelve-inch rod a poker! 
 Great Scott! I wish I had a blast-furnace stoker — " 
 
 "Now, James," I said in my quietest tone that is apt to 
 exasperate him when he is out of sorts, "let's look at the 
 thing scientifically." 
 
 "Science be hanged, Persis. Can't you see for yourself 
 that a two-foot piece of iron no bigger than our kitchen 
 stovepipe at home, and a grate opening no larger than a 
 
Wholly Domestic 29 
 
 penny-in-the-slot slit, can't warm a twenty by sixteen foot 
 room and thirteen feet high into the bargain ? You don't 
 use common sense!" He shook the Httle black affair till 
 it was nearly hoisted from its dachshund legs. 
 
 "Oh, don't, James! You'll upset the whole thing, and 
 if a coal should fall on that rug I should have a fit." 
 
 "Don't complicate the situation just now, Persis, I beg 
 of you." When James is sarcastic I know the limit of 
 his patience has been reached. "I'm not going to be 
 boycotted by a Dutch stove, not if I know it — What the 
 d !" 
 
 "James, James," I expostulated, "don't swear!" 
 
 "Why, the thing's alive! I believe you'd be the first one, 
 Persis, to hire a graphophone to do some talking for you 
 if you'd picked up a live coal- — darn it!" He wrung 
 his half-blistered finger; "I believe it's starting up." 
 
 It was. That is the way of a Dutch stove. When one 
 has reached the verge of desperation in consequence of 
 its non-action, it begins to draw with a vehemence that 
 in a short time puts all other nations' stoves to shame. 
 Within ten minutes we were removing ourselves to a 
 respectful distance from the glowing iron. In another 
 ten we opened the windows for air. In the end we had to 
 let the fire go out in order to cool off by bedtime. Not 
 until two weeks later did we learn, and that by chance 
 only, that the stove could be literally disembowelled: its 
 inside lifted out by means of an iron handle like that of a 
 kettle, and the piece of "stovepipe" as James called it, 
 
30 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 taken down into the fuel room, emptied by a single turn 
 of one's hand, refilled, lighted, and carried back upstairs 
 to be set, briskly burning, within its glazed and perforated 
 shell. No noise, no dust, no confusion, no smell of burn- 
 ing resin-sticks, no smoke of turf, nothing to offend either 
 eye, nose, or ear. 
 
 Our fuel room was a mere closet, and the coal bin about 
 the size of a travelling saleman's sample trunk. This 
 room is universally small in Dutch houses; the coal and 
 coke are bought by the bag and from week to week. The 
 minimum of heat, the maximum of discomfort, that is 
 the rule. The kindlings, so-called "fire-makers," some- 
 thing I mistook at first for braided molasses stick-candy, 
 are bought by the hundred. They are shavings dipped in 
 resin and artistically doubled and twisted into something 
 resembling a French bowknot. This confection is about 
 three inches long; it is daintily tied with twine and 
 delivered in pink paper bags. 
 
 When I contemplated the fact that I was mistress of a 
 Dutch villa, the rooms of which were thirteen feet high in 
 the walls and proportionately large in square contents, 
 and then examined the "fire-makers," two of which are 
 expected to start a Dutch fire, I felt the contrast to be 
 so painful that I half lost my courage — half, I repeat, 
 but never wholly. I had always a reviving sense that 
 there was enough of a unique natural beauty at my very 
 door, to compensate for the loss of a degree or two of 
 courage in my housekeeping attempt. 
 
 I had but to open the gate in the ivy-covered fence at 
 
Wholly Domestic 3i 
 
 the end of the garden, and there always before me stretch- 
 ed the wide waste of the dunes that showed Hke over- 
 lapping ranges of hills against the horizon: billows of 
 sand forty to seventy feet high, stable only for an hour, 
 a day, then driven by the winds into shifting contours 
 ever new, ever strange as they encroach landwards. 
 Above them hung low the ever-changing North Sea sky, 
 at times pale blue flecked here and there by a high-flying 
 rook, and beneath it the sea showed a still fainter blue, 
 gleaming white with crisping foam and thousands of 
 snowy gulls. Sometimes, but rarely and at sunset, the 
 heavens flamed scarlet, the sea burned red, the dunes, 
 wherever they were set with coarse hummock grass, 
 lightened into phosphorescent yellow, the waves, in color 
 like the lees of wine, rolled along the wet, shining sands 
 where a lone tern sought for his food. And often, 
 very often, for days and nights together during the dreary 
 winter-time, sky and sea and dunes were gray in gray, 
 blotted out wholly in dark, rolling mists that hid both the 
 strand and the sea — that wild sea, the terror of the 
 ancients, which seems to utter, in the deep, continuous, 
 gasping moan of its waves, the lament of those lost souls 
 who peopled the great winds in Dante's Vision of Hell. 
 
 This sound is awful. I use the word in its entire sig- 
 nification. James and I spoke of it often, as more and 
 more frequently we sought in our walks the famous beach 
 of Scheveningen. It is unlike any thing we have ever 
 heard by other waters in the New World or the Old. It 
 seems to make articulate in that continuous, breathless 
 
32 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 moan, all the desperate pain and strife, national and 
 individual, of the ages in which Holland has been strug- 
 gling for an existence uplike that of any other nation. It 
 interprets anew the savage despair of the centuries in 
 which the land attempted to beat back the human tide 
 of foreign legions, that rose higher and higher as the little 
 archipelago raised its head from the all-embracing waters 
 and came into historical prominence. It breathes the long- 
 drawn breath of dogged determination with which, for 
 eighty years, it closed in a life and death strugglewith the 
 Spaniard. We hear in it the hopeless wail of internecine 
 war, and the agonizing cry of a nation's soul when the 
 body politic was dismembered by a Frenchman's word. 
 We hear in it, also, the overwhelming rush of its ever- 
 threatening sea and the uneven flow of its lawless rivers 
 that, to this day, bear destruction on their floods. 
 
 That awful sound, coming from within the dark, 
 impenetrable mists, brought to us a mufHed knell, as it 
 were, from thousands of engulfed belfries, the drowned 
 bells of which seem forever to be tolling for hundreds of 
 sunken cities and villages, for entire devastated provinces, 
 all of which lie to-day deep beneath the shifting bottom of 
 the North Sea sands; and, alas! for the hundreds of thou- 
 sands of brave souls that have found death beneath its 
 merciless waves. 
 
 Overwhelmed, yet never overmastered! This was, is, 
 and must remain the wonder of it all. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE DUTCH OAT 
 
 James insists that The Dutch Oat, as he dubbed her, 
 deserves a word of notice, if not of praise. At first I 
 objected; but in the end I, too, felt she should be, accord- 
 ing to Dutch custom of memorializing everything signi- 
 ficant or insignificant, memorialized at least; immortality 
 is not for such as she. She was the prefix to our servant 
 question, and may serve as an exponent of certain 
 matters of Dutch red tape and elucidate some customs 
 in The Hague. 
 
 James' elation at his success in finding a home so 
 exactly suited to our needs, was so great that he over- 
 reached himself and overdid me in attempting to provide 
 further for us and lift all care from my shoulders. But 
 the method he pursued to accomplish this end was 
 peculiar. He started for The Hague in the forenoon, 
 saying he would be at home for lunch in order to return 
 with me and look for a servant. There was little to do 
 in the few hours of his absence except to watch the fires, 
 for everything was in fine order throughout the house 
 and every detail for housekeeping provided for, even 
 to the linen and silver. However, as the kitchen fire, 
 whether watched or neglected, went out under my super- 
 
 33 
 
34 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 vision on an average once in two hours, I found that 
 time did not hang heavy on my hands. Half an hour or 
 so after James' departure the front door bell began to 
 ring, and continued to ring without intermissions of 
 any account until his return. 
 
 It seems, as I learned afterwards, that his method of 
 provisioning was as follows : during his walk into town, 
 a matter of two miles, he hailed every vendor of anything 
 he happened to pass, and, giving him his card, pointed 
 significantly backwards to Scheveningen. Then with a 
 smile (James really has a smile that is ingratiating with 
 foreigners), a polite salute and a substantial "tip," he 
 would walk on his way, rejoicing in his good work and 
 ready to hail the next comer. 
 
 In consequence of this remarkable process, which he 
 had evidently been inspired to evolve from his conscious- 
 ness, I had the doubtful pleasure of interviewing in pan- 
 tomime four butchers, two of whom I feared would come 
 to blows at the gate, three bakers, two cokemen, two 
 turfmen, one vegetable-man, two milkmen, two butter- 
 men, one eggwoman and two eggmen, one window- 
 washer, who came with a long truck, loaded with hook 
 and ladders, buckets, poles and hose, and gave me a 
 genuine fright, for I thought the house was on fire 
 and the "hook and ladder" was on the spot to help 
 extinguish it, one fishwife, one fruitman, one grocer, 
 one broom-man, and, lastly, a vendor of soap and scour- 
 ing sand! 
 
The Dutch Oat 35 
 
 Any of my countrywomen who read this list will, I 
 am sure, offer me their heartfelt, if silent, sympathy. I 
 had, it is true, added in the past twenty-four hours two 
 words to my limited vocabulary, heneden and boven — 
 four in all; but not one of them was applicable to a com- 
 plicated situation, and not one could help me out. I 
 dared not say ja to this host of solicitors for fear of 
 unpleasant foreign complications on our part and queer 
 doings on theirs. It terrified me to hear them vociferat- 
 ing without a single gesticulation at the gate, after inter- 
 viewing me. I knew, of course, and through sad experience, 
 that heneden and hoven belonged to houses and not vege- 
 tables, although some of the latter grow beneath the 
 ground and some above it. That was one gleam of 
 hope, but it enlightened me only for a moment. No 
 one could expect me to order a chicken or a roast of 
 beef, which I really wanted, by repeating with dignity 
 such a word as HoUandsckespoorwegmaatschappij. I 
 found that with French and German at my command, 
 no one understood anything but Dutch. 
 
 After having in vain tried poulet and Huhn with my last 
 butcher, I cast all dignity to the winds and actually 
 crowed. Even that failed, for Dutch roosters do not 
 crow in the Yankee dialect of cock-a-doodle-doo. I 
 learned shortly afterwards, but not before I had registered 
 another vow to learn enough Dutch to make all my com- 
 mon wants known, that I should have asked for a kip! 
 
 I fear James found me in no amiable mood. 
 
ro Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 The servant question — is the servant question even 
 in Holland, and particularly in The Hague. In attacking 
 it, I came up against a Dutch dyke and failed to make 
 a breach. "Yes, you can have a servant the first of 
 May, but not before. You must then engage her for 
 three months at least. A good girl will only make an 
 engagement for the year. But to engage one by the month, 
 or the week — oh, no, impossible! It is not the custom 
 in The Hague." In consequence of this custom we found 
 the hiring of a servant bound about, not with red tape — 
 nothing so pliable — but with cast-iron bands of custom 
 that have endured for generations. 
 
 One curious touch of the profit system there is in con- 
 nection with this question which may well be worth 
 mention. If the employer pays any kind of bill on a 
 running account, for example, a weekly or monthly 
 grocer's, merchant's, doctor's, or fuel bill, the service of 
 the house receives one per cent of the amount paid from 
 the merchant who receives the money. This curious 
 custom is regulated by law, and the servant holds the 
 employer to the payment of so much, or so little, as one- 
 half of a Dutch cent, which is less than a quarter of a 
 cent American currency. 
 
 We advertised; we registered in service bureaus; we 
 investigated "homes"; we stirred up butcher, baker, 
 and milkman to interest themselves in our behalf, but 
 in vain. Our butcher took pity on us and sent us a 
 Scheveningen werkvrouw, a young, pretty woman, the 
 
The Dutch Oat 37 
 
 mother of eight children and "one at the breast." These 
 women hire out only for the day. In my ignorance I 
 asked her if I could find a woman who would stay nights. 
 
 "Oh, no, it is not the custom in Scheveningen." 
 Would she as a favor remain with us on Sunday ? "Oh, 
 no, it is not the custom for Scheveningen women to hire 
 out on Sundays." Would it be possible, if we could get 
 a girl from Scheveningen to have her in costume, it was 
 so pretty ? This was, of course, intended for a compli- 
 ment. "Oh, no, it is not the custom for girls from Sche- 
 veningen to wear their home dress; it is not fine 
 enough." All this by means of an interpreter, be it 
 understood. 
 
 But she came to us by the day, our werkvrouw, and, 
 with the most laudable intention in the world, she did her 
 best for a week to make the home uninhabitable for us. 
 The house was clean when we went into it, that is, clean 
 enough according to my ideas, and I pride myself on 
 being a thorough New England housekeeper; but from 
 our werkvrouw' s proceedings I should have inferred 
 that it was other than a human habitation. For one week 
 everything was a-wash. Such scrubbing, and rubbing, 
 and washing, and drubbing, such sousing and wringing 
 out of cloths, such scouring, and polishing, and flooding, 
 as James said, regular squee-geeing, as went on was enough 
 to drive one distracted. It did drive James out of the 
 house, and me to find refuge, as on a Robinson Crusoe's 
 island, upon my royal dais in the kitchen, where I stood 
 
38 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 and endeavored to whip an egg with an affair resembhng 
 the spiral of a bed spring. She bought soap and sand by 
 the kilo, borax and soda by the half-dozen boxes. She 
 came at nine and went at nine, and when she was not 
 scouring the floors and partitions, she was beating the 
 furniture, polishing the brass, or scouring the kettles. 
 It was only on the Seventh Day that we rested. It is all 
 immensely impressive at first, this grand parade of 
 Dutch cleanliness, but to the clear-visioned American 
 time shows it to be, in part, veneer. 
 
 At last we had an answer to our advertisement: a 
 typical lower-middle-class Dutch woman of an uncertain 
 age who addressed me in fairly fluent French! I found 
 that she could express herself in four languages : her own, 
 French, German, which she spoke better than French, 
 and very imperfect English. She was willing to hire out as 
 general help by the week. Hearing this, I thought there 
 was a screw loose somewhere, but James said: "Take 
 her by all means; it isn't once in a lifetime you can have 
 a whole Berlitz School of Languages beneden in your 
 kitchen. Make the most of your opportunities." I 
 agreed. 
 
 She expressed herself as willing to do the whole work 
 of the house provided the werkvrouw did all the hard 
 outside drudgery. I agreed to this. She asked permission 
 to change her black suit — which it is the custom for 
 girls to wear in service — for a warmer house dress and 
 a more comfortable one. To this, also, I agreed. She 
 
The Dutch Oat 39 
 
 informed me she would go into The Hague one after- 
 noon in a week, and arrange to spend every alternate 
 Sunday afternoon and evening away from the house. 
 To this I agreed. She also made it plain to me that it 
 was the custom in The Hague — oh, how I came to 
 loathe that phrase! — for the employer to pay the fares 
 in the tram to and from The Hague. I agreed. She 
 further informed me with perfect composure that she was 
 to receive a certain rate per cent for everything bought 
 at the door which she should, acting for me, pay for in 
 cash! I thought this was going a little too far, but I 
 agreed, under inward protest. She stated that it was the 
 custom in The Hague for a girl in service to receive from 
 a dinner guest one gulden as a fee. Then I took my 
 stand, and refused; but, oh, the weakness of men! 
 James said, sotto voce, that he would supply the necessary 
 amount out of his own pocket rather than have a guest 
 insulted, but, as we were in Holland, we should 
 conform — that was his word — to the customs of the 
 Dutch, and I must not stand for that. 
 
 Thus, having come and seen and conquered, this 
 Dutch servant entered into possession of the house. 
 James' face when she made her appearance to wait at 
 breakfast the next morning was a study. Our Berlitz 
 School, as James called her at first, appeared in a Mother 
 Hubbard wrapper of flaming scarlet flannel, none too 
 clean, and announced with stolid satisfaction in a 
 guttural bass: 
 
40 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 "The oat is ready." She had informed me the evening 
 before that she had come to us to perfect her English! 
 This information I received after I had engaged her, and 
 she at once set to work to perfect it as above. James 
 said nothing, nor I either, because we knew we should 
 laugh out loud in her face if we did. 
 
 "You eat the oat — and sugar?" No response from 
 either of us. 
 
 "I serve the oat," she announced with satisfaction; and 
 she served the oatmeal in her way, which was no way, 
 and took her departure. 
 
 "I can't stand this Berlitz School," said James when 
 he took his face out of his napkin; "I'll call her The 
 Dutch Oat after this, and for heaven's sake, Persis, get 
 that red portiere oflFof her as soon as you can." 
 
 For the thirteen days she was with us the red flannel 
 Mother Hubbard was unchanged except on Sunday. 
 It seems that and the black suit were all her wardrobe. 
 She never failed to announce our breakfast with the 
 formula: "The oat is ready," and, in the end, James 
 said it was a wonder he didn't neigh for answer. I 
 helped to make the kitchen fire — unknown to James — 
 for several mornings, and always superintended the 
 upstairs stoves for the night. One evening we went to 
 the opera, and, coming home late and seeing good fires 
 abounding took it for granted that she had attended to 
 them, as she had promised faithfully to do. In the morn- 
 ing I was awakened about eight by a light in my eyes. 
 
The Dutch Oat 41 
 
 As not by any possible chance is there any Hght of the 
 sun in Holland at that early hour I opened them wide, 
 fearing fire. There stood The Dutch Oat in her flaming 
 flannel, and a candle in her hand. I stared at her. 
 
 "The stove is out," she announced stolidly, without a 
 movement of a muscle of her face. I heard James snicker. 
 
 "Out? The fire?" 
 
 "Yaas. He will not burn." 
 
 "Make it then as quick as you can." I confess I was 
 cross. 
 
 "He goes not. I have my pains with him." 
 
 James' head was under the bedclothes, and I heard 
 him growling out the most unintelligible instructions. 
 
 "Well, go out of the room, and never come in so again 
 without knocking." 
 
 "Als't U belieft." She fell back upon this Dutch sen- 
 tence which one hears as a conclusion to everything, 
 whether argument, favor, insult, entreaty, command, re- 
 fusal, acquiescence, civil or uncivil answer, and went 
 out. 
 
 "James, what are you doing?" The head of James' 
 Dutch bed was at the footboard of mine, consequently I 
 could see him when he dove under the quilt and gave an 
 exasperated kick at finding this unwelcome presence in 
 our room. 
 
 "Quoting Homer." 
 
 " Quoting Homer ? For pity's sake, James, explain 
 yourself." 
 
42 Through the Gates of the Netherlands- 
 
 "Explain! I was that mad to see the Oat come in here 
 that I wanted to swear, and couldn't in any one of the 
 four languages, for she knows them all; so I had nothing 
 left but Homer. Anyway it has relieved the pressure; 
 but, Persis, I tell you she must go. I won't stand it — all 
 this nonsense about stoves; and you have done all the 
 cooking yourself. I'll break up rather than see you slave 
 over here in a Dutch kitchen that makes me fear pneu- 
 monia for you every time you go down into it; it has 
 never been above forty-eight since we came into the house. 
 Send her packing." 
 
 And I did. Mercifully a silk merchant, with whom I 
 had some deahngs, knew of our plight and sent us a clerk 
 of his who, to make an extra gulden now and then, kept 
 his eye open for good help for the first families. How 
 James and I laughed when we heard that! In the course 
 of a few days we were provided with a cook and general 
 woman of the house, a second girl in the person of our 
 werkvrouw' s fifteen-year-old Tryntje, a boy to come in 
 for odd jobs, and our werkvrouw to help out once a week. 
 With this establishment of four, our Stork's Nest began to 
 seem like home, although we had expected to keep but 
 one servant as we do in America. With the coming of 
 dear little Tryntje and Anna Engelina the domestic 
 atmosphere of our Dutch Stork's Nest cleared once and 
 for all, and peace brooded above its steep roof on which 
 there never once alighted a solitary stork! But the rooks 
 were fine company, those and the sparrows which Tryntje 
 
The Dutch Oat 43 
 
 fed on the colder mornings when they came to the kitchen 
 windows in flocks of hundreds. 
 
 The prosaic matters of our expenses may not be unin- 
 teresting to some. The wages of the regular house ser- 
 vants came to two dollars and eighty cents a week; the 
 werkvrouw had a gulden, forty-one cents, for her day's 
 work. The laundry was all done out of the house by a 
 cooperative association, for a year's membership in which 
 I paid five dollars. The whole linen for the house, includ- 
 ing household and personal linen for both employers and 
 servants, came to something like one dollar and seventy- 
 five cents a week: this, of course, included everything, 
 even to the starched clothes, in all, averaging one hundred 
 pieces. If the servants do not send their personal linen 
 with that of the family, the employer is obliged by law to 
 pay to each at the rate of twenty-six gulden — about ten 
 dollars and a half — a year for the same. The constant 
 stream of fees, also, must be reckoned with when one is 
 counting the cost of Dutch housekeeping. A boy brings 
 a bundle from The Hague — a fee. A messenger leaves 
 a package or a note — a fee. A conductor on the tram 
 looks to see if he shall give you the extra change of a half 
 cent; one hasn't the moral courage to refuse — a fee, of 
 half a cent to be sure, but in time it, too, counts. A boy 
 shows you the turn of a street — another fee. You have 
 company to dinner — a fee for both cook and second girl. 
 The werkvrouw helps to carry the ash can to the sidewalk 
 — a good fee this time. All the cabmen are feed, the 
 
44 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 porters and carriers. In this way it goes on ad infinitum, 
 and, although the fees in themselves are trifling, the aggre- 
 gate amount must be reckoned with in all Dutch house- 
 keeping and living. 
 
 Provisions, meat and groceries, as well as fuel are dear. 
 Eggs, and not fresh ones at that, for all the best are sent 
 to England, average in the winter fifty cents a dozen; 
 butter thirty-five cents a pound; milk and cream are good 
 and not expensive, three cents a quart for the one and 
 fifteen cents a pint for the other. Vegetables are delicious, 
 abundant and, according to our rates, inexpensive. As a 
 rule the fruits are of a poor quality, expensive, and scarce. 
 I know of one day when there was not a banana in The 
 Hague. Cereals are little known. Cheese is of the best, 
 and as dear as with us. The poultry is poor in quality 
 and wanting in substance. The mutton is wool-growing 
 mutton, and, as the Dutch eat little of this meat, it is 
 difl&cult to obtain even from the Court Butchers the right 
 cuts or the right kind; it is all strong. One almost tastes 
 the oily fibre of the wool. The rents are reasonable, but 
 all furnishings are dear, except the woolen fabrics. This 
 fact is easily accounted for when one considers that there 
 are few manufactories in the Netherlands, but an immense 
 quantity of wool is raised. All dress goods are expensive, 
 but the fine Dutch linens are very reasonable. As for the 
 luxuries, an ice is a parody on that article, the cakes, 
 with one or two exceptions, caricatures on the genuine 
 product, wines poor and too dear for the quality. Dutch 
 
The Dutch Oat 45 
 
 living to be good must be expensive, and the weekly bills 
 foot up much the same as at home. 
 
 Taking all things into consideration, Holland's cities 
 are not places of refuge for the poor in purse; perhaps 
 that accounts, in part, for the lack of foreign colonies in 
 Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and The Hague. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 HOLLAND WITHIN 
 
 Our home was not far from the beautiful estate which 
 more than three hundred years ago belonged to the famous 
 Jacob Cats. He was a kind of rhyming Benjamin Frank- 
 lin, from all I can learn about him, and his name has 
 become an honored household word, beloved among the 
 Dutch in much the same sense that Franklin's is among 
 us. It is a synonym for homely wisdom, trenchant 
 philosophy, shrewd diplomacy and intense patriotism. 
 Part of this estate has been secured for the new Peace 
 Conference Palace in The Hague. 
 
 James, after looking the ground over, was seized with 
 the competing mania, and gave all his daylight hours — 
 they were few enough — to that absorbing work of design. 
 On this account, as my household was running smoothly, 
 I found time to explore The Hague to my full satisfaction. 
 It served to pass away the time; but four months of such 
 pastime is sufficient. Naturally I speak as a foreigner, 
 foreign to the land, its homes, its people, its customs. I 
 can see only with a foreigfier's eyes, can judge only from 
 a foreigner's point of view. It may not be the right point 
 from which to write upon another country than my own; 
 yet it is one of necessity taken by many an open and right- 
 
 46 
 
Holland Within 47 
 
 minded German, Frenchman, or Englishman who has 
 written on our country, and from whom we have learned 
 "to see ourselves as others see us " with, in many instances, 
 much profit to ourselves. I am sure the Dutch are none 
 too good to be viewed through the same liberal glasses of 
 an American. 
 
 I write of the Netherlands neither to criticise nor 
 compare; that would be both unwise and ignorantly 
 narrow-minded. I desire only to place before those who 
 find this land for many reasons interesting beyond others, 
 certain phases of Dutch life which presented themselves 
 to me during a residence of many months in the Nether- 
 lands. 
 
 From the very first, there was noticeable during the 
 winter the absence of anything like joyousness abroad in 
 the streets. The men were stolidly sober, the women 
 neutrally quiet, the children placid, the dogs, and they 
 are legion, barkless, the horses without a whinny. I 
 never saw a dog chase a cat, neither did I see girls playing 
 tag, nor good healthy boys tearing down the Old Scheven- 
 ingen Road like so many steam fire-engines to the rescue. 
 I accounted for this last fact after seeing the fire apparatus 
 of The Hague. One day I noticed an inoffensive-looking 
 concern, about as large as a small dump-cart, faring at a 
 dog-trot pace along that famous avenue. It was manned 
 by three men in brilliant scarlet and astonishing helmets. 
 There was an insignificant engine, connected with this 
 portion of a Dutch fire department, and the small hook 
 
48 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 and ladder accompaniment could easily be put to shame 
 by my window-washing truck with its ladders, buckets 
 and poles. It was the saddest looking fire-engine I had 
 ever seen, and there was not even one small boy to race 
 and shout in its wake! I confess I had a homesick pang 
 at the sight. But I put reason to work afterwards, and 
 James said that, for once, I reasoned well and as follows : 
 There is the minimum of heat in every house in The 
 Hague; there must be fire to make heat; consequently, 
 little heat, little fire; little fire, little water required to put 
 it out. If water were needed there is enough on tap to 
 extinguish Vesuvius in its recent eruption. 
 
 Shoals of school children used to pass me in the streets, 
 marching sedately and stolidly two and two, the two little 
 fingers linked, as the custom is with peasants who are 
 betrothed, the master or mistress at the head. Often 
 they broke forth into singing, but the singing was stolidly 
 discordant, and the tune a legitimate heir of the Lutheran 
 psalmody of the Reformed Church! I rarely heard a 
 child laugh, or cry. The babies submitted to hardships 
 that would have roused a baby of any other nationality 
 to protest with the full vigor of his lungs. In the trams 
 there is no genial give and take, and exchange of weather 
 nonsense among acquaintances who chance to meet. 
 The electrics, even, run almost noiselessly, so perfect is 
 the roadbed and the adjustment of the wires. 
 
 Of an afternoon about four, in the dismal early dark of 
 a Dutch winter, I liked to walk through the two or three 
 
Holland Within 49 
 
 principal streets, all of them less than twenty feet in width, 
 just for the sake of looking into the windows of the various 
 cafes, which were only dimly lighted, and seeing the men 
 and women take their material pleasures, as it seemed to 
 me, with a kind of desperate sobriety. Sometimes I 
 used to join them. James drew the line at these cafes 
 and would not go in, declaring they were the "limit" 
 and made him "club-sick." Of course I knew what he 
 meant — I had experience of the feeUng when I saw the 
 fire-engine. But I enjoyed the fun; everybody was so 
 abnormally solemn. Little lads in white linen caps, full, 
 long, white duck trousers and white duck "sneaks," 
 flitted noiselessly hither and thither, like great white 
 moths, with trays of chocolate, tea, coffee, and plates 
 of rich pastries, the Dutch koeken of many names. 
 
 The occupants of the cafe, seated on small uncomforta- 
 ble stools or narrow-backed chairs, ate the cakes and 
 sipped their chocolate or coflPee with toy spoons, the 
 Hke of which the Dutch have used for centuries, without 
 the accompaniment of a smile, a merry word, or the sound 
 of cheerful laughter. It was all so silent, so dull, so dim, 
 that I found myself longing for the first time in my Hfe to 
 be going to an afternoon "tea" at home, where I could 
 lose myself in a rising flood of be-flounced and be-chiffoned 
 femininity, where my voice would be drowned in the 
 flood-tide of shrill chat and laughter, and my eyes be 
 dazzled with lights and flowers and sparkling glass and 
 silver. 
 
50 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 Even the cakes are historical and their making an 
 organized industry. A Dutch friend told me that for 
 two or three centuries certain cakes, monopolies of 
 certain cities and towns, have been made from the same 
 recipe. It is a point of honor for one city not to steal 
 another city's specialty and sell it under another name. 
 This same friend was kind enough to make a list of some 
 of them that we might be on the lookout for these tidbits 
 on our travels. Afterwards as we came to know not only 
 Holland, but other portions of the Netherlands, we made 
 a point of buying these koeken in the various cities. Thus 
 in the course of time and travel we ate Haarlem halletjes, 
 Utrecht theerondjes, Gouda sprits — or "spout-cakes" 
 because the dough is dropped through a funnel — Rotter- 
 damsche peperkoeken, Breda ontbytkoek, Arnhem meisjes 
 — maids — and kopjes of The Hague, which are not 
 cakes at all, but a kind of burnt butter-scotch candy. It 
 seems a certain Baron Hop gave away this recipe fully 
 three hundred years ago, and the faithful Dutch continue 
 to serve this confection, without the suspicion of a change 
 in ingredients, unto this very day to thousands of 
 consumers. They are dear, too, like all else in The 
 Hague, and the brown bits cost on an average a cent 
 apiece. 
 
 I could read these women's lives from their slow move- 
 ments, from their expressionless faces, from their rich 
 jewels, from their fine clothes, from their dehberate 
 consumption of the many cakes. The routine would be: 
 
Holland Within 6i 
 
 a breaking of fast, merely, at half-past nine, a short morn- 
 ing spent in a loose wrapper much affected by the Dutch, 
 a certain care of their dogs, a hearty lunch at half-past 
 twelve, a toilet for the street and shopping on the Noord 
 Einde, chocolate at a cafe, a walk, at home again in time 
 for dinner at half-past five, then preparation for the 
 theatre or opera for which the bourgeoise holds a season 
 ticket. Home again at twelve — and the round begins 
 with the next forenoon. I learned afterwards that I 
 was not far wrong in my reading. 
 
 I rarely saw a woman on the street without a dog 
 attachment, sometimes two. They drive with them, 
 sit with them, walk with them. When the dog is not 
 accompanied by his mistress, he is with a maid. When 
 he is not with the maid, he is with a kind of "dog-gov- 
 erness." In any and all cases he is cared for, petted, and 
 treated on the street, at least, with far more considera- 
 tion than the woman herself. I add to this statement 
 another: that not only the woman of the middle and 
 higher classes leads about a dog by the string or, as it 
 happens in most cases, is led about by him, but every 
 man of her acquaintance follows the same custom. The 
 consequence is that, whereas the dog as a beast of burden 
 is in his place between the shafts of the peasant's cart, 
 and does his work as an honored friend and helper of 
 the family, the petted poodle of the middle and upper 
 classes is a nuisance and pest in a city like The Hague. 
 The Dutch need never pride themselves on the pro- 
 
52 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 verbial municipal cleanliness so long as this custom 
 obtains among a certain class. 
 
 The contrast between the rich and the poor is most 
 marked in this capital. The handsome villas of the 
 wealthy merchants of Rotterdam and Amsterdam have 
 for their back-door neighbors, as it were, the poor fisher- 
 men's dwellings of Scheveningen. Everywhere there is 
 beggary in the streets, and the evidence of great poverty 
 as a contrast to the fine showing of carriages and horses, 
 of women dressed in luxurious velvet and furs, of liveried 
 footmen and coroneted coach doors. I have seen faces 
 of men and women on the Old Scheveningen Road that 
 will haunt me always, thin for want of food, drawn with 
 care, haggard with the waste of consumption — a result 
 of starving rations, and foul, crowded sleeping-rooms. 
 Instead of the heavy wines, the solid meats, the rich 
 pastries on the tables of the rich, you will find meat in the 
 pot only once a week in the workingman's home; for 
 the other days a bit of cheese, a cup of coffee, and the 
 regulation dish of small nutty potatoes must suffice. 
 This diet is repeated in nine families out of ten. A 
 Scheveningen woman once told me that her husband was 
 out fishing and would receive for the trip of eleven days 
 six gulden, two dollars and forty-four cents! "It is so 
 little," she said, with the unconscious pathos of the poor, 
 "we can scarcely make both ends meet." There were 
 five mouths to feed on that sum, and no prospect of 
 steady work; there never is vyhen one considers the 
 
Holland Within 53 
 
 caprice of the North Sea, and the fact that the fishermen 
 do not own the boats in which they sail. 
 
 This poverty is more noticeable in The Hague than 
 in any other city of the Netherlands, because the great 
 contrast between the dwellers in the court quarters, 
 the abodes of the wealthy leisure and mercantile classes 
 and the inhabitants of the adjacent village of Schevenin- 
 gen is always in evidence. Not that this mendicancy 
 in the streets and at private doors is a proof of neglect 
 on the part of the Dutch of their poor and needy; far from 
 it. On the contrary I know of no country where charities 
 are so systematized and productive of so much good as 
 in the Netherlands. All over the land there are muni- 
 cipal orphanages, and hofjes, which I shall describe in 
 connection with Leyden, there are Oude Vrouwen and 
 Oude Mannen houses and the Begynen Courts. These 
 also must be counted in with the Gates of the Netherlands, 
 for in most cases the entrance is through a narrow gate- 
 way in the middle of some long city or town block. 
 They are small, but some of them are very beautiful. 
 The keystone generally bears an inscription with date, 
 or the lintel a carving. 
 
 James and I never willingly passed by one of these nar- 
 row portals. Sometimes the statue of a little St. Christo- 
 pher enticed us over the threshold and into the inner 
 court, whence we could generally hear the sound of 
 singing children's voices. I am sure that many an orphan 
 boy or girl has revelled in cakes for more than one day 
 
54 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 through James' thought of his own boy. I know he 
 could not enter one of these "Httle gates" without his 
 , hand finding his pocket. These unpretentious Gates of 
 the Netherlands should never be passed by if a foreigner 
 would know intimately and appreciate thoroughly a 
 beautiful trait in Dutch character; for the Dutch not 
 only feed and clothe their orphans, they care for them 
 in a way that must be seen and felt to be understood. 
 
 In every town of importance, in every province, one may 
 see, if he seek it, just such an interior as the illustration 
 shows: little maids in black dresses and white caps 
 industriously at work in surroundings that make for 
 health, peace, and happiness. Some of these "courts" 
 are called Begynen Courts, from the ancient sisterhood 
 of St. Begga who lived some twelve hundred years ago. 
 In almost any city of the Netherlands, if one look care- 
 fully along a row of ancient houses in the old part of 
 the town, he will find one of these "little gates" through 
 which one should enter, or he can hardly be said to know 
 the inner life of the Low Countries. 
 
 The organized begging of the churches, parishes, broth- 
 erhoods, and committees for the support of these various 
 communities is something as remarkable, in its way, as 
 the land itself. We had been but a short time in The 
 Stork's Nest, possibly a week, when various notices began 
 to be left at the door by messengers to the effect that on 
 such and such a day, so and so — an honorable head of a 
 community or prominent man in a parish — would call 
 
"HOLLAND WITHIN' 
 
Holland Within 55 
 
 and solicit alms for such and such an object. As the 
 announcements were in Dutch and my powers of trans- 
 lation not at that period of the first order, I paid little 
 heed to any of them. Within two or three days, as I was 
 looking out of the living-room window, I saw at my gate 
 the astonishing spectacle of a footman in quasi-livery. 
 He opened the door and preceded no less a person than 
 an ambassador, or so it seemed to me, up the walk to my 
 front door. The ambassador was dressed in a suit of the 
 richest broadcloth. He wore a tall hat, black kid gloves, 
 and carried a gold-headed cane in one hand and a silver 
 salver in the other! 
 
 I answered the bell myself as the werkvrouw had gone 
 out of an errand, and, after an unintelligible word from 
 the footman, I was impressed by the grandeur of it all 
 into saying ja. It seemed safer in the circumstances 
 than the negative. Whereupon the man bowed low and 
 withdrew, that is the only word that expresses his delib- 
 erate action. The ambassador came slowly up the walk 
 and with dignified greeting held out to me his silver 
 salver. There is an old saying I have heard at times: 
 You could knock me down with a feather. In this 
 instance it was applicable to me, for I was weak with the 
 strain of the anomalous position, and I had but a kwartje 
 in my pocket! In a flash I connected messenger, foot- 
 man, ambassador, and plate with the neglected announce- 
 ment, and perceived that I was expected to contribute to 
 charity on account of that unguarded ja. I dropped my 
 
56 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 kwartje mechanically upon the pile of silver in the plate, 
 and received a stiff bow in acknowledgment. (I could 
 but wonder should I have had a smile if I had con- 
 tributed a ryksdaalder?) Then the ambassador also 
 withdrew, his dignity quite equalling the footman's. 
 
 "And you mean to say that you had the face after 
 all that parade to give him only ten cents ? Why, the 
 show was worth fifty!" was James' comment when I 
 described this method of systematized begging. This 
 "show" continued throughout the winter, and I soon 
 learned to drop my ten cents into the plate without a sign 
 of flinching or a feeling of weakness. Even a dear Dutch 
 Salvation Army lassie was announced! 
 
 The common mendicants at the door were legion; 
 the men without work numberless; the vendors of small 
 wares, both men and women, who brought with them 
 testimonials as to character and "hard luck," more than 
 I could count. This beggary, wholesale and retail, went 
 on daily, sometimes hour by hour, until the spring, 
 when, with the return of the tardy sunshine and warmer 
 weather, the numbers perceptibly diminished. At first I 
 used to leave the hangings at the dining-room windows 
 undrawn of an evening; but I soon drew them close, 
 for it was not reassuring to see a wild, appealing face 
 pressed against the great panes with the dark night as a 
 background. Matters are carried thus far, and too far, 
 in the rich capital of the Netherlands. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 AN HUMBLE SOURCE OF DUTCH ART 
 
 We began with the Poultry Show. 
 
 This may seem like an attempt to ridicule the sublime, 
 but that is not my intention. James and I decided from 
 the first to see the Netherlands, its Hfe, its art — an 
 expression of its life — its cities, towns, and waterways in 
 our own way. We had long known our Motley, and 
 Henry Havard, De Amicis, Hans Brinker, The Burgo- 
 master's Wife, La Tulipe Noire, and a half-dozen books 
 of travel were continually on hand for reference or enjoy- 
 ment. But the ways of others were not our ways. I 
 realize that our manner of Dutch living and Dutch 
 voyaging may not appeal to others, but it suited James 
 and me. Ours was the synthetic, as opposed to the 
 analytic method of other travellers and writers. 
 
 During our winter in The Hague we studied the centres 
 of Dutch art in the Netherlands: the Ryks Museum in 
 Amsterdam, the Frans Hals Museum in Haarlem, the 
 Mauritshuis and Mesdag at The Hague. We knew of 
 old the wonderful series in the Dresden Gallery, the 
 incomparable, if small, collection in Cassel, the rich 
 showing in the English National Gallery, in Antwerp 
 and Brussels. These, also, are centres, and the art of the 
 
 57 
 
58 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 Netherlands is to be understood only when one has seen 
 the works these centres possess, and verified their power 
 of truth by residence and travel in the land itself. 
 
 As I said, we sought one of the humblest if most 
 prolific sources: "The Twentieth Great International 
 Exhibition of Poultry," under patronage of no less a 
 personage than the Queen Mother. 
 
 "I know a fine bird when I see it," said James, looking 
 up from his Dutch paper one morning in February, 
 "and I've always wanted to test the truth of these Dutch- 
 men's art, for some of their painted birds shake my 
 faith in the limits of a Dutch artist's imagination. They 
 seem impossible as to size and coloring. Let's go to the 
 show." 
 
 "I, too, know a fine bird when I see it; but my point 
 of view is the gastronomic one. There is certainly more 
 than one 'out' in all the poultry that has come on our 
 table. It is tasteless and colorless, and I'd like to see for 
 myself. Some one told me not long ago that the poultry 
 is fed on fish; that would account for its poor color and 
 flavor — as if chickens needed phosphates!" 
 
 "A man told me the other day" (it's a peculiarity of 
 James always to top my little stories with his big ones), 
 "that every year fifty thousand hogs are fatted on the 
 waste from the distilleries at Schiedam!" 
 
 "Oh, James! Is that why you vetoed pork chops the 
 other day when I proposed them for a change V 
 
 "Yes; it's bad enough for the men to make beasts of 
 themselves with gin, but when it comes to feeding the 
 
An Humble Source of Dutch Art 59 
 
 beasts themselves on the refuse, the government ought to 
 interfere, or mankind draw the Hne." 
 
 "That only goes to show that our country isn't the 
 only one that has its meat scandals." 
 
 "That's right, Persis, let the eagle scream till we've 
 seen something at the show that will eclipse his glory and 
 drown his voice." 
 
 "I don't care, James, if you do make fun of me. I'm 
 patriotic to that extent that I can hug an American turkey 
 gobbler if I am so fortunate as to find one at the show." 
 
 And I did! That is, I mean I saw him. I failed to 
 embrace him because James interfered. I discovered 
 him among several thousands of birds, not by his gobble 
 but his label. When I saw it something began to lump 
 higher and higher in my throat just as it does when I hear 
 The Star Spangled Banner, or see its glory in a foreign 
 land. James tried to laugh me out of it. "It's not an 
 American bird, Persis, or he would have gobbled recogni- 
 tion. You've wasted your sentiments." 
 
 "He came over in an American egg, anyway, and if 
 your patriotism were as deep-rooted as mine you would 
 understand my feelings for this blessed bird." Whereupon 
 my husband took me firmly by the arm and led me gently 
 away to see black swans, and huge, insufferably supercili- 
 ous Pomeranian geese and ganders. We inspected the 
 several thousands of the feathered domestic tribe with 
 ever-increasing interest. As James said: "It must be 
 seen to be believed." The extreme brilliance of the colors 
 was noticeable in the majority. They rivalled the Haar- 
 
60 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 lem tulips which we saw later in the spring. The plumage 
 was thick and exquisitely fine in texture. The size really 
 abnormal. 
 
 There is a painting in the Mauritshuis by Jan Steen 
 in which a cock standing by a little girl, who is seated on 
 a step, seems preposterously large. I know now that it 
 represents the actual. If, previously, Dutch art in poultry 
 portraiture — it is nothing less than that — had explained 
 something of Dutch life to us, now we were ready to 
 acknowledge frankly that nature had enlightened art. 
 We enjoyed the show, the finest, James said, of its kind 
 in the world. We enjoyed more the light that it threw 
 upon the innumerable canvases of feathered game, alive 
 and dead, of waterfowl, geese, ducks, herons, of peacocks, 
 partridges, pheasants and swans, of magpie, dove and 
 finch with which Hondecoeter, Weenix, Steen, Mieris 
 and Metsu have enriched the world. 
 
 Seek out these masters wherever they may be 
 found, in the Ryks at Amsterdam, at the Mauritshuis in 
 The Hague, in the Antwerp Gallery, in Cassel, Dresden, 
 London, and you will realize how they stand head and 
 shoulders above the other schools in delicacy and richness 
 of coloring, in the rendition of the downy depths of plum- 
 age or fur, in accuracy of proportion, and, above all, in 
 perfect fidelity to the feathered life of the Netherlands. 
 
 An humble source, decried by many; but Art, like 
 life, is apt to take frequent if not deep draughts at just 
 such common wellsprings. 
 
An Humble Source of Dutch Art 61 
 
 "Have you solved the problem of the table hen, now 
 that you have seen the show ? " James asked that evening 
 at dinner, as he carved the breast of a particularly unap- 
 proachable fowl. 
 
 "Yes, I have; and to my satisfaction. I am convinced 
 that every Dutch hen, rooster, and chicken outside the 
 pale of that show is anaemic. It's a Dutch fad, this 
 breeding magnificent birds for prizes, and has been for 
 hundreds of years. As a result of this process the national 
 and natural poultry life in the Netherlands has been 
 drained of its best blood. The many have been impover- 
 ished for the few to that extent, that when you want a 
 good bird for your table you have to buy a Brussels capon 
 and pay seven gulden for it." 
 
 "Thank you," said James, meekly, but a Httle wickedly; 
 "I'm glad to have the toughness and unpalatableness of 
 this special bird so scientifically explained. It aids 
 digestion." 
 
 "You are lucky to get that," I retorted. "MejufFrouw 
 Silz told me, the evening she dined with us, that the pro- 
 fessional class has such hard work to keep up the 
 appearances due their standing and make both ends 
 meet, that when a friend is invited to dine a wooden 
 chicken is placed on the table as a kind of piece de re'sis- 
 tance — and they eat bread and cheese! What do you 
 think of that!" 
 
 "I think a man who can set before a friend a wooden 
 chicken for dinner has a decided advantage over us in 
 
62 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 the matter of piece de re'sistance; this is the toughest fowl 
 I ever tackled!" 
 
 He was a Httle cross, nor could I blame him. To come 
 home from a poultry feast of the eye to a fowl famine on 
 one's own table is not conducive to amiability, especially 
 in a man. I had a wifely appreciation of the fact, and 
 refrained from further speech and more stories. Some- 
 how women's dinner-table stories always do fall flat. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE GATE BEAUTIFUL 
 
 If I found the birds and game of Hondecoeter and 
 Weenix predominating at the poultry show, I discovered 
 later in my Utrecht poulterer's shop the interiors of 
 Metsu and the Van Mierises. 
 
 It is a small place on the Zee Straat in The Hague. 
 The floor and walls are of stone. At the back there is a 
 stone flight of stairs leading to the first story; beneath it 
 is a stone archway with downward-curving stone steps 
 vanishing in shadow. When I saw it for the first time it 
 was filled with an assortment of wicker baskets and 
 cages of different sizes and four diflPerent shapes. The 
 colors were cool willow greens, warm browns and pale 
 yellow. The stock- — ducks, geese, turkeys, pheasants, 
 cocks and hens, alive and dead, but with plumage 
 intact, hares and rabbits, — lay in rows upon the counter, 
 hung on the walls, and were suspended from the heavy 
 beams of the ceiling. There was a finch in a tiny wooden 
 cage at the entrance to the shop, and wicker crates of cocks, 
 brilliant of plumage and shrill of note, cumbered the floor. 
 Against the shadowed background of the deep, stone arch- 
 way two wide-eyed fluffy owls in a huge cylindrical 
 basket of wattle-work blinked slowly at their surroundings. 
 
 63 
 
64 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 Again and again I found the subjects of these masters 
 in the fish and poultry stalls of the market-places of North 
 and South Holland. I met with them in the grocers' 
 tiny shops; and everywhere I saw that these living pic- 
 tures of to-day had preserved many characteristics — 
 even to the shape and coloring of the wicker cages for 
 the fowls — of those masterpieces with which Gabriel 
 Metsu and Willem and Frans van Mieris have enriched 
 the walls of the National Gallery in London, the galleries 
 of Dresden and Cassel, of the Ryks Museum at Amster- 
 dam and the Mauritshuis at The Hague. It is a notable 
 fact that these canvases have rejoiced already eight 
 generations of an uncarping mankind by their truthful 
 charm of coloring and execution. 
 
 The transition is easy from these interiors, filled with 
 game and poultry, to the free haunts of the whole 
 feathered and furry tribes, to forest, stream and river, 
 to pastures, dunes, and peaceful countryside. 
 
 Through the Gate Beautiful of Dutch landscape 
 painting we are led by five masters: Jan van Goyen, 
 Jacob van Ruisdael, his pupil, Meindert Hobbema — - 
 greater than his master — by Albert Cuyp of Dordrecht 
 and Jan Vermeer of Delft. These are the men who form 
 the group of great landscape painters, and to know their 
 canvases, wherever they are to be found, is to make 
 acquaintance with an art that, noted for its fidelity to 
 nature, often approaches the ideal and, in some instances, 
 enhances truth through idealization. This idealizing 
 
The Gate Beautiful 65 
 
 touch, rarely found in Dutch painting, illumines the 
 truth of beauty. 
 
 Of these five masters three were prolific in works: Van 
 Goyen, Ruisdael and Albert Cuyp. Their canvases may 
 be seen in all the great galleries. The Ryks at Amsterdam 
 is notably rich in these landscapes as well as the Royal 
 Gallery in Dresden. Of the other two, Meindert Hob- 
 bema has given us few canvases, but they are master- 
 pieces and rarely beautiful — first-water gems, clear in 
 conception, flawless in color. Head and shoulders above 
 the other four, but side by side and shoulder to shoulder 
 with Rembrandt and Nicholaes Maes, stands Jan Ver- 
 meer of Delft. I dare affirm this, and I believe that 
 future judgment will confirm it. He has given to the 
 world but one great landscape, or rather a town with a 
 river frontage. This, however, is immortal : the wonder- 
 ful Fiew of Delft in the Mauritshuis at The Hague. That 
 corner of Room VHI where it hangs was our Mecca on 
 the occasion of every visit, and they were many, to that 
 gallery. On dark days the sweet brilliancy of its coloring 
 lighted all the gloom within the walls, and on the rare 
 sunny ones, the clarity of its blue matched the patch of 
 sky, as seen from the window beside it, that shows above 
 the old, steep-pitched roofs of the Binnenhof buildings 
 that border the Vyver. This blue is entrancing: a 
 blue the color of the Virgin's mantle in the great Raphael 
 of the Dresden Gallery; the color of the Rhone at Geneva 
 as it sweeps swift, deep, and strong beneath the bridge 
 
 5 
 
66 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 by Rousseau's Island; the blue of Alpine gentians as 
 seen beside a drift of snow on the heights of the Simplon. 
 O Jan Vermeer of Delft! Whence did you get this 
 idealizing blue note that shows in all your precious 
 works ? From a mother's eyes ? From the blue waters 
 of the Schie ? From the sky above the pointed towers 
 of St. Catherine's Gate in your native town ? Whence- 
 soever you obtained it, it is, and must remain, the expres- 
 sion of an ideal elemental color of the universe. 
 
 We found it a matter of intense interest to study the 
 early environment of these men, to note its effect on their 
 art. Goyen of Leyden, Ruisdael of Haarlem, Hobbema, 
 his pupil, near by at Amsterdam — all these knew and 
 loved that with which they were familiar in their youth : 
 the Haarlem woods, the Lake of Haarlem, the path 
 between the bushes over the dunes to the sea. They 
 knew the oaks and great forest trees of Haarlem, the 
 waters and their mills, the cross-country of lovely lakes 
 lying between Leyden and Amsterdam which James and 
 I called afterwards, when we came to know it, The 
 Heart of Holland. They knew, too, the ways of the sea, 
 and the rivers and inland waters of the cities that border 
 it. One and all knew these things, knew and loved 
 them. Hence we find repeated again and again in their 
 canvases with but slight variation the country peace, the 
 forest road, the way across the dunes, the water-mills 
 and the peasants' dwellings half-hidden by over-topping 
 trees, the walls and towers of Delft and Dordrecht 
 mirrored in the quiet waters. 
 
The Gate Beautiful 67 
 
 In confirmation of this their attitude, on the side of 
 art, towards their environment, one has only to seek out 
 Hobbema's Mill and the Haarlem Wood in the Brussels 
 Gallery, his two watermills in the Ryks at Amsterdam 
 and those in London. One has only to find Jacob van 
 Ruisdael's country idyls : his Lake of Haarlem in Brus 
 sels, the series of landscapes at the Ryks including the 
 View of Haarlem, the Forest Scene, and Landscape with 
 Watermtll, together with that magnificent Dresden set, 
 fourteen canvases unequalled by any collection on the 
 continent. 
 
 In all of them there is to be found and felt the idealiz- 
 ing and uplifting influence of the Haarlem woods, a 
 remnant of that vast wooded tract that once covered 
 the coastlands, and is treasured with that other remnant, 
 the Haagsche Bosch as the only forests worthy of the 
 name in all the length and breadth of the Netherlands — 
 these nether-lands where a solitary tree is hedged about 
 with something of divinity, and it was once counted a 
 high crime to wantonly destroy one. 
 
 Let anyone examine and study these five masters 
 wherever he may find them on his travels, be it in the 
 Ryks at Amsterdam, in the National Gallery in London, 
 in Brussels or Antwerp, but above all in Dresden, and 
 he will be forced to admit that there is idealism among 
 the old Dutch masters, and that these great landscape 
 painters are its exponents. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE MILLER S SON 
 
 There is in the Ryks Museum at Amsterdam the 
 portrait of a warrior seen full face. Tradition says it is 
 the face of Harmen Gerritszoon van Ryn, a miller of 
 Leyden and the father of a certain Rembrandt of whom in 
 this tercentenary of his birth all the world is speaking, 
 and to his honor. It is only a tradition, but I like to 
 think it true; for the face is so fine, yet so strong, the eyes 
 kind but keenly alive to the world of affairs, their outlook 
 level upon men and things — a face worthy to be placed 
 beside the Rembrandt in the National Gallery in London. 
 This picture in the Ryks is an ancient copy; the original 
 is in England. 
 
 During the winter we used to run up to Amsterdam 
 for an hour or two in the Ryks. We never remained long 
 enough to weary ourselves and dull impressions through 
 satiety. This portrait, wrongly signed : Rembrandt, f. 
 1 641, claimed my interest from the first and continued to 
 hold it. I had been so fortunate as to see all the Rem- 
 brandts on exhibition in the famous galleries of Europe, 
 and thought I could see nothing in Amsterdam and The 
 Hague — apart from The Night Watch and The Lesson 
 in Anatomy — which could equal the unrivalled series in 
 
'THE MILLER OF LET DEN' 
 
The Miller's Son 69 
 
 Cassel and Dresden. But there are two, and one a copy 
 in the Ryks, which, now that I have seen them, I find 
 stand to me as exemplars, perhaps better, an expression, 
 of the man Rembrandt and of his art. This portrait 
 copy is one of the two. 
 
 The more I studied it, the more convinced I became 
 that the miller of Leyden was the model for this portrait 
 painted when his son was in the glorious first prime 
 of thirty-five. I used to return to the Mauritshuis in 
 The Hague after one of these visits to Amsterdam and 
 look at the portrait of his mother. Little by little, as I 
 studied it, with a photograph of the supposed miller 
 of Leyden before me, I seemed to evolve a definite com- 
 posite from the two. It was a mingling of feature, a 
 blending of traits, both elusive, a combining of a com- 
 mon heritage of kindly expression about mouth and 
 eyes. It was the face of Rembrandt himself, not the 
 face of the old man in the English National Gallery, 
 nor yet the joyous Rembrandt with his wife Saske 
 on his knee in the Dresden collection; neither was it 
 the gay youth, nor the thoughtful, middle-aged man in 
 the gallery at Cassel. It was a composite of the many 
 Rembrandts we find in all the famous collections of his 
 works. 
 
 That he was a miller's son, this we know. With this 
 fact in mind let anyone, if he have opportunity, enter 
 one of the huge windmills for the grinding of grain in any 
 province of the Netherlands. Let him note the effect of 
 
70 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 the light striking into the dim, high interior from the 
 wide doorway. Notice the shaft of sunshine which, 
 entering by some narrow aperture high up near the 
 second story, falls athwart the curious half-light and ren- 
 ders the atmosphere, charged with flour-dust, luminous. 
 The light is intensified itself by the narrow opening, and 
 intensifies the illumined shadow on beam and rafter. 
 Let him mount the long ladder to the second story, and 
 as he descends, notice the luminosity of the interior as 
 seen from nbove. He will, seeing this, realize for the first 
 time, that an impressionable small boy, a miller's son, 
 some three hundred years ago, with an artist-soul just 
 ready to germinate within him, must have been much 
 in his father's mill, and the sensitive brain-films have 
 unconsciously received impressions of light and its prop- 
 erties which were developed later in his art with such an 
 intense power of permanence, that we of to-day can but 
 marvel. 
 
 The truth of this was brought home to me one day as 
 I stood within the great, dim interior of a grain mill on 
 one of the islands of Zeeland. I saw about me, almost 
 it seemed to me clairvoyantly for the moment, an early 
 source of Rembrandt's psychology of light; for it is that. 
 Other artists deal with its physiology; Rembrandt alone 
 with the soul of it. Therein lies his apartness. 
 
 If subjectively he appeals to us, he does so by his 
 interpretation of something that we can only express 
 as the animus of elemental light. There are two or three 
 
The Miller's Son 71 
 
 canvases by Rembrandt upon which I can never look 
 without recalling the grandest word in all literature: 
 Let there be light; and there was light. 
 
 One of these paintings which shows the power of light 
 in its creation is a small canvas in the Ryks Museum. 
 It is called The Stone Bridge; many might pass it by. 
 The work must appeal subjectively, or not at all. It is 
 not the stone bridge, nor is it the landscape, nor the 
 storm cloud, nor the threatened burst of sunshine 
 through it that holds me; it is the illumined whole which 
 shows that some elemental power is obeying a universal 
 law in this transmission and transfusion of light. 
 
 The miller of Leyden, as seen in the accompanying 
 illustration, his mill, the duplicate of which may be found 
 now, after three hundred years, in certain parts of Holland, 
 and Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Ryn, the miller's son, 
 form a trinity the factors of which elucidate one another. 
 
 James and I, exploring at our leisure various cities 
 and towns, came upon another source of inspiration 
 for this master-painter. As a consequence of this "find" 
 we understood and appreciated for the first time the 
 beauty of the misnamed Night Watch. 
 
 All over the Netherlands, if you look for them, you will 
 find the remnants of the Shutterhofs, or shooting courts, 
 the old Doelen, or ancient shooting galleries, which were 
 to the militia, or firain-bands of old, what our regiment 
 armories are to our own home defenders. But you must 
 look for them. Thev are not always to be found for 
 
72 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 the asking. We happened upon the remnants of one in 
 Dordrecht; and if Rembrandt himself with Lieutenant 
 Willem van Ruytenburg of The Night Watch had appeared 
 before us in the dark entrance, it would have been no 
 cause for wonder. 
 
 A narrow stone passage-way between two old houses 
 in a city block led into a court set with magnificent trees. 
 I had only a glimpse of this, for workmen were busy 
 tearing down and carrying away the beams of an old 
 Doelen. We made our way into the passage among the 
 debris, and stood there for a moment to look at the bril- 
 liant sunlight which, flooding the court and sifting 
 through the young spring foliage of the great trees, filled 
 the farther end of the dark, narrow stone passage with 
 the golden light of the famous Night Watch. 
 
 We found Rembrandt again and again, but afterwards 
 in the glorious spring of the Netherlands, when we saw 
 Amsterdam for the first time, that is, really saw it. We 
 found him in old auction-rooms, dark, piled high with 
 treasures from old houses and families. Jew and Gentile 
 were seated on both sides of the long table, which was 
 loaded with old silver, old inlaid woods, sparkling with cut 
 glass and gay with cross-stitch embroideries and the riff- 
 raff of households that once were noted for their rich 
 furnishings. A broad band of semi-light fell through the 
 not overclean side window and struck into prominence 
 a Scheveningen woman's white fluted cap and shining 
 gold band and cap pins. It lighted the dark faces of 
 
The Miller's Son 73 
 
 three Dutch Jews. One was holding aloft a fine glass 
 tankard and testing it with the nail of his crooked, 
 coarse-knuckled little finger for a flaw. It paled the 
 light of a pipe that a fisherman was blowing into smoke. 
 
 We found him in the library of The Hague — and so 
 close to us that it brought his personality as if living 
 before us. 
 
 We were looking over a folio of his sketches and draw- 
 ings, those moods and tenses of the very man caught off 
 his guard. These are reproductions from private and 
 public collections, and most interesting to study. They 
 furnish the best insight into Rembrandt's way, not only 
 of looking at a thing, but seeing it. Of all these the one 
 that brought the master nearest to me is a slight sketch of 
 a mighty tower in ruins. It stands among much fallen 
 debris. The tower itself, what there is left of it, shows 
 its massive and perfect proportions even in its fallen 
 estate. Of foreground or background there is only a 
 hint suggested by a few masterly and solid strokes. 
 One realizes that here is no tower that has been besieged 
 by Time, but one upon which has fallen some sudden 
 catastrophe. In the upper right-hand corner scrawled 
 in obliquely, but boldly, one reads : Tower oj Town House 
 Amsterdam after the fire taken from the City Scales. 
 
 Then I saw the master with fit subject for his mighty 
 brush : the great tower of the Stadhuis in smoking ruins, 
 the play of smouldering fires about it, the wreathing of 
 smoke around it, the sudden flash of a spurting flame, 
 
74 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 the wondrous light upon the smoke-haze that covered 
 the sky. And just across the Oude Zyds Voorburgwal by 
 the city scales (why not Weigh House ?), Rembrandt 
 van Ryn catching the effect of ruined tower, flame, smoke 
 and wondrous reflected light, with a few black strokes. 
 Oh, great Master! How like your own life! One seeks 
 in vain for a remnant of that old Stadhuis Tower — and 
 in vain one seeks for your forgotten grave; but the Tower 
 survives in the master's sketch, and Rembrandt in the 
 art that towers above all others of its kind. 
 
 So the winter passed, with now and then a day at some 
 one of the three great galleries of the Netherlands. We 
 went up to Haarlem to make acquaintance with Frans 
 Hals in his own home. His are the only guild, or corpora- 
 tion pieces, I felt willing to look at, barring Rembrandt's; 
 for the vanity of the Dutch is never more in evidence 
 than in memorializing their civic honors by having their 
 portraits painted by the wholesale. No one doubts but 
 that they were all good men — some of them very good- 
 looking ones — and the best of citizens, but as James said, 
 the line must be drawn somewhere; and when it comes to 
 the Lady Regents of an Asylum for the Insane, the Over- 
 seers of a Lepers' Hospital, a Tailors' Trust Company 
 Limited, a Cloth Merchants' Syndicate, or a Poorhouse 
 Commission, as well as thousands of lesser lights, all 
 standing, sitting, kneeling, posing for their portraits, 
 the limit of forbearance with this peculiar weakness of the 
 
The Miller's Son 75 
 
 Dutch has been reached. And to think that they should 
 have employed such men as Rembrandt van Ryn and 
 Frans Hals to paint them at so much a head! I am sure 
 there were plenty of others to do it for them. 
 
 It has been well said that corporations have no soul, 
 and the saying is exemplified in the general expression of 
 these hundreds, yes, thousands of citizens' faces. As a 
 matter of principle we turned our backs on all the corpo- 
 ration pictures, or, at least, cut their acquaintance when- 
 ever we could without injuring the feelings of a proud 
 curator of a museum, or stadhuis, in some of the smaller 
 towns. I drew another line at the numberless Flights 
 into Egypt and the Susanna-in-the-Baths. Just why 
 every old master should try his hand on these two sub- 
 jects passes my comprehension. Of course I have a 
 theory — which anyone is privileged to have — that one 
 subject gave the artist a good chance at landscape if 
 that were in his line, with the aureole of a religious touch, 
 and the other satisfied both morality and art by combining 
 chastity with nudity. James has confirmed the reasona- 
 bleness of my theory. 
 
 There is too much servility in this admiration for 
 Art, and it is costing both individuality in opinion and 
 truthfulness in expressing a conviction. If I don't like 
 Rembrandt's Susanna in the Bath why should I pretend 
 to admire it, or be looked at askance if I express my 
 non-admiration, even if it be by an old master ? 
 Masters are all human, and their works uneven. Were 
 
76 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 not this the case we should have, not the true master- 
 pieces which are an expression of the vitality of genius 
 at the flood, but a dead level of mediocrity. Well that 
 genius like all else has its ebb tides, its lapses into the 
 commonplace! We are the richer for it. 
 
 But Frans Hals and Company in the old Stadhuis of 
 Haarlem are not to be ignored. It is a veritable reception 
 of Haarlem dignities who receive you with all due pro- 
 prieties. I would like much to introduce into this one 
 room, given over to regent and guild pictures, The Jolly 
 Toper and the Lute-player from the Ryks, The Haarlem 
 Fishwife, Hille Bobbe, At her Fish-stand, from the 
 Dresden Gallery, the " Pickel-hdring" so called — a 
 laughing man, a toper, holding a pitcher in his left hand — 
 from Cassel, and The Two Musical Boys from the same 
 collection. As James said, "It would make things lively 
 in the old Stadhuis and show us Frans Hals other than 
 the one who worked for so much a portrait." Yet this 
 room in the Stadhuis on The Groote Markt is a noble 
 monument to a noble art and one of Haarlem's artist 
 citizens. One should go there if only to make acquaint- 
 ance with Frans Hals and Company at home. 
 
 Rembrandt van Ryn lives not alone in his works but 
 in those of "all the glorious company of the apostles." 
 There is Vermeer of Delft who, I like to think, can trace 
 his power through Karel Fabritius, a pupil of Rembrandt 
 and master for a short time of Jan Vermeer, in a line of 
 
The Miller's Son 77 
 
 direct succession from the great master. But this is 
 almost wholly imaginative on my part, and Vermeer of 
 Delft, with some forty works not yet all discovered, eludes 
 cataloguing except as a great Dutch master, perhaps the 
 greatest after Rembrandt. His Fietv of Delft and Head 
 of a Girl in the Mauritshuis, The Man with the Hat at 
 Brussels, and The Lesson in the National Gallery in Lon- 
 don show the greatness of his genius, and place him at 
 this late datewhere he has always belonged, "at the head 
 of the glorious company." 
 
 We went over to Brussels just to see a painting by 
 Dordrecht's most renowned son in art, Nicholaes Maes, 
 The Dreamer. I have sat before it for a half-hour at a 
 time marvelling at the power of human appeal in that 
 painting. An old woman, worn with life and the toil and 
 sorrow and pain of it, has fallen asleep in her chair. Her 
 spectacles are slipping from the tired fingers. There is 
 a slight flush on her wrinkled cheeks. She is dreaming — 
 dreaming of young joys that have been, that never will 
 be hers again. There is a touch of vivid red in the picture, 
 and this touch will be found in nearly all of Maes' paint- 
 ings, just as the wonderful blue note is found inVermeer's, 
 and the golden brown, that shadows black, in Rem- 
 brandt's. 
 
 Maes is the one of the old Dutch masters who always 
 appeals subjectively, who idealizes and spiritualizes his 
 subject without departing from the truth of the real. 
 He, too, was a pupil of Rembrandt, but never an imitator. 
 
78 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 He is the great forerunner of Israels and Maris. You 
 find humanity in The Dreamer and in Asking a Blessing 
 — an old woman at her humble table murmuring the 
 one prayer: Give us this day our daily bread. We find in 
 the Ryks an Old Woman Spinning, a girl at an open 
 window: Dreaming (there is the touch of red in the 
 shutter), and in Dresden, ?"iro Women in a Kitchen Clean- 
 ing Pewter Plates. Here you find the predecessor of the 
 best in the modern Dutch School. 
 
 Of the others of that company, of Jan Steen, whose 
 grave we found in St. Peter's at Leyden, and his merry 
 family-life, of Dou's candle-worship, of Van Ostade's 
 peasant gatherings, of Bol's portraits, first cousins to 
 those of Frans Hals, of Pieter de Hoogh's charming 
 interiors — an old-time Anton Mauve — why write a 
 word .? They may all be seen to-day in living pictures 
 throughout the length and breadth of the Netherlands, 
 if one seek for them. If I were asked what gallery would 
 be the best field for studying Dutch art, I should answer 
 unhesitatingly, the Dresden. It has over seven hundred 
 masterpieces of the Dutch School. It possesses these 
 treasures by the wholesale: nineteen of Rembrandt's 
 best; fourteen of Jacob van Ruisdael's incomparable 
 landscapes, sixteen from the brush of Gerard Dou and 
 from the other masters in like proportion. To collate, to 
 compare, to learn, one should study in the Dutch School 
 on the Elbe. 
 
 A recent writer on Dutch art has made a statement to 
 
The Miller's Son 79 
 
 the effect that the florescence of that seventeenth century 
 of Dutch painting cannot be satisfactorily accounted for. 
 Dare I attempt it after seeing the widespread examples 
 of the best in Dutch art ? If I may, I would suggest that 
 art, and a very wonderful art, existed in the Netherlands 
 in the preceding century; but the terrible struggle for 
 independence did not allow it to come to the surface to 
 breathe. Still, it was at work, leavening, after the destruc- 
 tion wrought by the Iconoclasts, the whole public mind 
 to receive what was in store for the next glorious hundred 
 years, when peace permitted the graces of life to show 
 themselves again. Let anyone examine the works of 
 Scorel and Moreelse, and he will understand how the 
 way was prepared for those more fortunate painters of 
 Rembrandt's generation. They are masters, and great 
 ones, worthy to hand on the torch to no less a person than 
 Rembrandt van Ryn. It was no sudden florescence, 
 that seventeenth century in Dutch art; it was only the 
 fruition from the florescence of the preceding hundred 
 years, visible at last in the market-place, if nevermore 
 in the Church. 
 
 "Tell me," said James, one day in the train as we were 
 coming home from a trip to Amsterdam, "what six Rem- 
 brandts are your favorites." 
 
 "The Stone Bridge," I answered promptly, "and my 
 Miller of Leyden, and, don't laugh, Ganymede and the 
 Eagle in Dresden, and that picture of himself with his 
 wife Saske on his knee, and the portrait of the writing- 
 
80 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 master Coppenol, and that splendid young Nicholaes 
 Bruynink in Cassel — " 
 
 "Hold on; that's six." 
 
 " Give me one, two more ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " — And the old Rembrandt in the National Gallery, 
 and the young Rembrandt in Cassel. Now what's your 
 favorite ? " 
 
 "You mean one, or six ?" 
 
 "Just one solitary one." 
 
 "Of Rembrandt's?" 
 
 "No; just your only one in the whole world." James 
 was silent a moment, and looked out of the carriage 
 window. It was a dreary outlook: dark gray clouds rolling 
 overhead, a really wintry sky, and the monotonous 
 stretch of uninhabited land on either side of the Sloter- 
 dyke. 
 
 "Israels' Alone in the World," he said. 
 
 I made no comment, for I knew his thought: that pic- 
 ture belongs to no age, no country; it is the property ot 
 the world, and its prototype may be found in palace and 
 hovel. In a peculiar and narrower sense it belongs to 
 Scheveningen, which deserves a word by itself. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 SCHEVENINGEN 
 
 A RECENT English writer on Holland says: "Scheven- 
 ingen is half squalid town, half monstrous pleasure 
 resort." 
 
 Such a statement merely proves that this small portion 
 of the world can be seen through other eyes than mine, 
 and many others. I can readily understand how the 
 last half of the statement can be true, viewed through 
 a summer tourist's ephemeral glasses. To speak of 
 Scheveningen to a friend or acquaintance is to call forth 
 the ready response: "Oh, yes, I know Scheveningen. 
 We ran down there from The Hague and saw the beach 
 covered with those beehive chairs. It is a curious sight. 
 The illumination at night is fine, and the music of the 
 best; but otherwise it must be deadly dull." 
 
 This is the Scheveningen that the world in general 
 knows. But there is another that James and I know — 
 the Scheveningen that has been the inspiration of Mesdag 
 and Maris, of Israels and Blommers, Artz and Bosboom, 
 and of many an artist of lesser fame. This is the Sche- 
 veningen that bars out the intrusive stranger and foreigner 
 by its own high dykes of custom, reserve and sturdy 
 independence; that refuses to be patronized, and shows 
 
 6 81 
 
82 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 its very heart, finely and appealingly human, only 
 when it realizes that the stranger, or foreigner, 
 approaches it with human sympathy apart from idle 
 curiosity. This is the Scheveningen I would like to 
 make known to others, this fishing-village I both know 
 and love. 
 
 Perhaps there is no better introduction to Scheveningen, 
 its life. Its people, its joys and sorrows, its narrow closes 
 and tiny courts, than through the medium of the Mesdag 
 Museum on the patrician Laan van Meerdervoort. It 
 has been opened for nearly three years. It is the gift of 
 Hendrik Willem Mesdag, the artist interpreter of the 
 Scheveningen strand and the North Sea in all its moods. 
 This private collection, unequalled, it is stated on the 
 authority of Zilcken, in Europe or out of it, has been 
 made a gift to the state,, by its owner. It is a noble gift 
 from a noble donor who wisely enjoys the usufruct of 
 his labor in that he shares his joy of possession with all 
 who choose to cross his threshold. The rooms connect 
 with his own living rooms, the building for the museum 
 having been erected on the garden. 
 
 When one counts on the walls the number of paintings 
 portraying the fisher life of Scheveningen, one realizes 
 that without this unique fishing-village, an humble neigh- 
 bor of the rich capital of the Netherlands, there would in 
 all probability never have been a Mesdag Museum. It 
 seems that Mesdag, born in Groningen, after a business 
 life of many years, devoted himself entirely to painting 
 
Scheveningen 83 
 
 and collecting the masterpieces of other artists. From 
 youth up he had given his leisure to drawing and sketch- 
 ing, but in middle age the call came loud and clear. 
 He worked in 1866 in Brussels with his friend Alma- 
 Tadema and with Roelofs. The summer of 1868 he 
 passed at Norderney. There by the sea he "found 
 himself," as the Germans express it. From thence- 
 forth he knew in what direction his calling lay, and, 
 having made his home at The Hague in the immediate 
 vicinity of Scheveningen, he became with the years 
 the finest interpreter of the capricious North Sea and 
 the life of its famous strand. 
 
 On the walls of the Mesdag Museum we find this 
 beach drifted white with snow; near the village a great 
 fishing boat, or pink, is shored with stakes. The men 
 are warming tar over a fire to calk the ship. We find 
 there the North Sea calm beneath a summer moonlight, 
 the pin ken seeming almost to rise and fall on its long 
 swell. These two, among many, are Mesdag's finest. 
 We see a wreck driving like a haunted thing on tem- 
 pestuous seas. We find the soft dusk of evening; a few 
 boats are drawn up on the strand, their hulls showing 
 dark against the clear heavens. We find, in fact, the 
 North Sea of Heinrich Heine, who alone has been able 
 to paint it in words: 
 
 Starless and cold ts the night, 
 The Sea yawns; 
 
84 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 And over the Sea, flat on his paunch, 
 
 Lies the misshapen North Wind, 
 
 And secretly, with suppressed groanings. 
 
 Like a stubborn grumbler who would be good-humored. 
 
 He babbles into the waters 
 
 And relates his mad yarns. 
 
 The Storm is raging. 
 
 And he lashes the waves. 
 
 And the waves, foaming with wrath and rearing. 
 
 Tower on high, and the white mountains of waters 
 
 Rock as if living. 
 
 And the little boat climbs them. 
 
 Laboring painfully. 
 
 And suddenly it plunges doivnwards 
 
 Into the black, wide-yawning abyss of the floods. 
 
 The sun sank deeper, and threw 
 
 Glowing red beams upon the water. 
 
 And the white, broad waves 
 
 Urged by the tide 
 
 Broke in foam, ever nearer on-rushing — 
 
 A strange rustling, a whispering and whistling, 
 
 A laughing and murmuring, a sighing and sousing. 
 
 Intermingled with a crooning as of a cradle song at home. 
 
 Turn to Jacob Maris, brother of that Matthew who 
 is more poet than painter. He, too, heard his clear call 
 
Scheveningen 85 
 
 in the Scheveningen fisher Hfe, and we see here his 
 masterpieces deaHng with the intimate home Hfe and 
 labor of the people: the mussel fishers knee-deep in water 
 with their carts, and a "wifie" sitting on the beach 
 watching them. He shows us the interiors of the tiny 
 homes, the closes, a Scheveningen woman sitting on the 
 dunes and looking out to sea — waiting for whom ? 
 
 Artz, too, felt the influence of this lowly life, and, 
 like the others, after wandering to Paris, he returned to 
 his own and "found himself" among the humble fisher 
 folk. Blommers, also, and Sadee were stirred to work 
 with this material. Even Israels, the greatest Dutch 
 master of the present, found the inspiration for one of 
 his greatest, if not the greatest, of his works in the lonely 
 dwellings by the sea. His Alone m the World in the 
 Mesdag Museum is a masterpiece before which one 
 stands only to feel, if he be human, a contraction of the 
 heart. This is broad work, and there is little detail; 
 but the humble room is a sanctuary: the shrine of a 
 broken heart. On the rude peasant bed lies the wife, 
 the face gray in death. Beside her sits her husband 
 alone in the world. That is his thought; and Israels has 
 known with deep spiritual insight, supplemented by his 
 genius, how to express that thought so perfectly, so 
 .humanly, that this touch of his brush shows us the 
 whole brotherhood of man. 
 
 The Mesdag Museum is in a very real sense Scheven- 
 ingen's apotheosis. 
 
86 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 There are other canvases, fourteen by Anton Mauve, 
 showing the inland peasant life, and many of the modern 
 French School that would make the name of Mesdag 
 famous as a collector alone: beautiful Corots, grand 
 Daubignys and Rousseaus, exquisite Millets, seven by 
 Diaz, and by the Italian Segantini two famous canvases, 
 one of which. The Two Mothers, strikes the same chord 
 in mountain life that Millet strikes on the plains of 
 France, and Israels on the North Sea shores. 
 
 Taken all in all, this museum represents more clearly 
 and consecutively than any other the trend of modern 
 art, its democratization — the finding and expressing 
 subjectively of the Humanly Beautiful in the life of the 
 toilers. Meunier among the sculptors has done this 
 thing — all praise to him. When will a Dutch sculptor 
 arise to do the same for his own people ? 
 
 Having seen Scheveningen in art, it is well to verify 
 the truth of this art by seeking the source of its inspiration. 
 As the dunes are worn away little by little by the encroach- 
 ment of the North Sea, so year by year this typical fisher 
 life, that is lived behind and on them, loses something 
 of its individuality. The encroaching flood of the New 
 and the Progressive undermines it socially, and little by 
 little the old life falls away. Even now the younger 
 Scheveningen girls are beginning to neglect the charming 
 costume of their mothers, and wear gowns and hats of 
 twentieth century make. The streets are changing, and 
 
'A TOILER OF THE SEA" 
 
Scheveningen 87 
 
 the great summer caravansary with its mushroom 
 growth is closing in upon the Httle village that has hidden 
 itself behind the dunes for protection against the ravages 
 of the sea. 
 
 But the old Scheveningen is still to be found, only, like 
 all else worth seeing in the Netherlands, one must seek 
 for it. The Old Church, the fishermen's church, still 
 stands at the end of Keizer Straat, a sentinel of the cen- 
 turies, just behind the dunes. It is the only landmark 
 that was left after the terrible inundation in the seven- 
 teenth century that swept the fishing hamlet out of 
 existence. There is a break just here in the line of dunes 
 that stretch from The Helder all along the coast of 
 North and South Holland and save the land from being 
 engulfed. By this break, the sea, until the building of 
 the esplanade, a small dyke in reality and a comparatively 
 recent structure, came up in times of high water as far 
 as the spot where now stands the Promenade Hotel, a 
 distance of a mile inland towards The Hague, and 
 stood three feet deep beneath the trees of the Old 
 Scheveningen Road. 
 
 Behind the dunes and below the lighthouse is the 
 present village, one can hardly say "built," for the mass 
 of tiny huddling houses seems to have burrowed into the 
 unstable hills. They are hidden by them from most 
 points of view, and the overtopping sands drift upon 
 them and threaten the very roofs. 
 
 I used to stand at sunset on the dunes by the lighthouse 
 
88 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 tower which signals across the chasm, where now is the 
 valley of Keizer Straat, to the Old Church, and marvel 
 at the teeming life hidden from sight before me — a 
 life that lives and loves, that is married and gives in 
 marriage, that rears its eight or ten children to a family, 
 and toils to feed the many mouths from the sparse bounty 
 of the capricious North Sea; that worships in the old 
 church of its fathers with old-time simple faith, and 
 obeys God's laws as best it can under the circum- 
 stances. 
 
 It was but a few steps across the dunes, set sparsely 
 with coarse hummock grass, the roots of which hold 
 down the shifting sand, to the abrupt edge of the sand- 
 hill from which Scheveningen is best seen. Just here I 
 could have stepped from the dunes upon the little red 
 or black tiled roofs below. When I turned to look behind 
 me I saw the waters of the fishers' havens, inner and 
 outer, filled with black weather-beaten pinken, and 
 beyond these, the sea of dunes, lonely, solemn, but not 
 dreary, billowed far and away to the horizon and into 
 the mists of sunset. Before me the old Scheveningen 
 burrowed its red roofs into the sand-hills and spread 
 irregularly down their sloping sides — a solid mass of 
 brick and tiles with curious zigzag lines drawn in and 
 through them which marked the lanes, alleys, closes, 
 streets, slops and laantjes of the jumble of houses appar- 
 ently tumbling downwards to Keizer Straat, and the 
 foot of the old fishermen's church. 
 
Scheveningen 89 
 
 I liked to walk down Keizer Straat as far as the 
 " slop," a long winding alley which an unheeding stranger 
 would pass without a thought of what lies behind this 
 mere crack between two houses, and, entering it, make 
 my way along its narrow length — two may pass pro- 
 vided one stands to the wall — up through the "laantjes," 
 or avenues in miniature, to West Straat. I lost my way 
 the first time I attempted to penetrate the labyrinth. 
 It was Sunday. The whole population, dressed in their 
 Sunday best, filled the alleys and streets. They looked 
 at me through their level unflinching lids as if they did 
 not see me, and barely tolerated the presence of a stranger 
 and a foreigner in their midst. In my confusion I turned 
 to a woman who was leading two tiny pink and white 
 girlies, hardly more than babies, one by each hand, 
 and in my halting Dutch asked the way to Keizer Straat. 
 
 She examined me for a matter of ten seconds as if I 
 "had come from the Boflins," with a look, not of mistrust, 
 but as if I had been a poor worm which she was hesitating 
 to crush beneath her foot. Then she said without a 
 smile of encouragement or an inflection of voice, "Come 
 with me;" and strode down the laantje at the Scheven- 
 ingen woman's cart-pace, the two dear babies doing 
 their best to emulate her. She spoke no further word. I 
 realized she was undergoing a trial in my company and 
 that the eyes of Scheveningen at that moment were upon 
 us. The straight looks that were cast at the "stranger 
 within their gates" were not wholly of disapproval, but 
 
90 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 they seemed to goad the woman on to get me out of the 
 sacred precincts as soon as possible. At the corner she 
 stopped short and pointed to the slop. "Down there," 
 and turned to go back. I thanked her and tried to press a 
 small silver piece into her hand. Never shall I forget 
 the superb air of toleration, the warding-off gesture with 
 which she raised her hand and pushed mine and its 
 money aside, not ungently, but firmly. "Not on Sunday," 
 she said, still unbending; and I stood there rebuked, 
 ashamed, and in my confusion bent to caress the children. 
 Seeing this, she smiled and her whole attitude towards 
 me changed. I asked their ages and where she lived. I 
 thanked her, and bade her "Good-day" with the deter- 
 mination to do by her as I would do by any other lady 
 who had shown me a favor. 
 
 One day, a few weeks later, I made my appearance 
 again in the inner court circleofScheveningen, armed with 
 a bunch of fresh daffodils for my benefactress. I had to 
 inquire the way to her home more than once, and the 
 daffodils, as much strangers as I in the small desert of 
 stone and brick where no flower blooms and no tree gives 
 its shade, caused as many wondering and approving looks 
 and expletives as my inquiries. In fact, half the com- 
 munity was "set by the ears" when they found I was 
 taking Vrouw A. some flowers. It was a workaday 
 atmosphere in which I moved. All the women and old 
 men were at home; all the able-bodied men were on the 
 sea, for the fishing-fleet had gone out two days before. 
 
Scheveningen 91 
 
 Every little close, not much larger than a city basement's 
 front area, was smothered by a clothes-rack on which 
 were stretched blue shirts and white, bed covers and the 
 family wash. The women in their undress uniform — 
 small close white cap like a nightcap, and minus frills, 
 gold pins, aprons and many petticoats — were washing 
 and rinsing in pewter tubs just outside their Dutch doors, 
 over the lower closed half of which the rosy cheeked 
 toddlers peeked at me. Some were bringing the water 
 from the common pump in the middle of the laantje. 
 Many of the huge fishwives in the full bloom of tousled 
 hair, small white cap aloft, faces round and red, weather- 
 seasoned hands and arms, their strength and proportions 
 like men, followed me with arms akimbo and an unin- 
 telligible word of direction. But there was never a rude- 
 ness, only a kindly inflection of the voice and a showing 
 of the generally toothless gums in a smile, when they 
 knew my errand. 
 
 I found the little home at the bottom of a small 
 close that was reached from a tiny square as big as a 
 pantry, which square was connected with the street by a 
 long winding passage— I think it was about three 
 feet wide — formed by the walls, doors, and port- 
 hole-windows of numberless other tiny houses. By 
 that time every woman and old man on the route had 
 shown me a friendly face. It was then that, metaphor- 
 ically, Scheveningen extended to me the hand of fellow- 
 ship and gave me the freedom of its narrow courts. 
 
92 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 Afterwards it showed me its heart. 
 
 It was on the occasion of a later visit I was made wel- 
 come in the tiny houses. I was shown the rude wall- 
 cupboard bed with the wooden doors that shut it from 
 sight in the daytime. I was shown the shelf-cradle, or 
 tiny bunk for the last baby, placed on the foot wall about 
 a yard above the parental couch. I was shown with pride 
 the simple blue and white tea-things on the table under 
 the cotton-lace draped porthole. I was shown the micro- 
 scopic grate for turf-burning and cooking that is placed 
 in the three-foot square entrance and is used by two 
 families in common in order to save fuel. They hive 
 for warmth in winter, sleeping six, and many times eight, 
 in the one small box of a garret. No room is larger than 
 a good-sized closet or small storeroom. They are chilled 
 through, although they are inured to all weathers, for 
 want of proper heat when the searching northwest wind, 
 driving in from the sea, finds them out in their cool, damp 
 burrows. Their scourge is consumption, induced by the 
 foul air of overcrowded sleeping-rooms and insufficient 
 food of the right kind. They sleep at home. They live 
 and work in the open, and their recreation is to don their 
 best and gossip as they walk with that peculiar carriage, 
 which is half swing, half roll, half stride, up and down 
 the length of Keizer Straat from beyond the "slop "to the 
 Old Church. They are poor, proud, sturdily independent 
 — no beggars are among the Scheveningen folk — haughty 
 almost in their carriage, which is noticeably fine, clannish. 
 
Scheveningen 93 
 
 intermarrying with their own, never eager to make 
 acquaintance with strangers, and pursuing their calling 
 of fish-catching and fish-selling with the conscious 
 pride of professionals. 
 
 In winter or spring it is a common sight to see a pink 
 drawn up by horses on the beach. It is moved as a house 
 is, on rollers. You may see at such times the living 
 pictures of Mesdag, of Maris, of Israels, Artz, and Sadee. 
 The dark battered hulls stand out from the gray sands 
 against the gray rolling mists. The heavy zwards, or lee- 
 boards, are folded close against their sides like a wild 
 duck's wings when it rests in the reeds. Two sailors, 
 the whole crew, are sitting on the roller, smoking their 
 pipes. A group of men farther down the strand are in 
 the water beside their carts. They are raking over the 
 mussels that the tide brings in by the half-ton. Rarely a 
 woman is seen. She is either at home with the children, 
 hawking fish in the streets, selling it in the stalls of the 
 market-place beneath the protection of the Groote Kerk 
 in The Hague, or working by the day, like our werk- 
 vrouw, to eke out the scanty living. 
 
 Such is the life of these people among whom the greatest 
 artists of the Netherlands have found an inspiration 
 that makes their art appeal through its humanity. 
 
 But it is on Sunday when they are seen at their best. 
 Then the courts and closes — and, by the way, the air in 
 them is free from odors of all kinds, for they have the 
 continual North Sea winds for a besom — are cleared of 
 
94 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 litter, the very paving stones and bricks scrubbed clean, 
 the little wooden shutters closed over the lace-draped 
 portholes, the doors locked, and the men and women of 
 Scheveningen in their Sunday best repair to the Old 
 Church behind the dunes. The women are in fresh-frilled, 
 snow-white caps of linen or lace adorned with the gold 
 pins given them by mother or grandmother on the occa- 
 sion of the first communion, in silk aprons, numberless 
 black petticoats, and the heavy full capes of mauve, 
 pomegranate. Gobelin blue and olive green. The men 
 dress in thick reefers, loose full trousers, black velveteen 
 slippers, and waistcoats adorned with a rare silver button 
 or two. 
 
 The Old Church of Scheveningen is the only one in all 
 North and South Holland in which I felt at home. In 
 fact, I might add that, with the exception of the Cathedral 
 at 's Hertogenbosch and the little Catholic chapel in the 
 Begynenhof in Amsterdam, it is the only church in all 
 the Netherlands for me. The interior is simple, beautiful 
 and inviting. The graceful white pillars of the nave have 
 delicate green capitals — a mood color of the North Sea 
 when it rolls above sun-filled shallows. The old pulpit, 
 high up against one of the pillars, has for a background 
 beyond the column a large window set with stained glass, 
 in color the same pale sea-green that decorates the 
 capitals. A looped curtain near it is of the same shade. 
 Under the organ, at the end of the nave, are high-backed 
 wooden stalls, rising one above the other, that form an 
 
Scheveningen 95 
 
 exquisite setting for the faces of the young girls who 
 occupy them. The stone floor is sunken and worn both 
 by feet and water. In the corner by the entrance stands 
 the backbone of some sea monster, walrus or whale. The 
 sanctuary is redolent of the sea. 
 
 I was present at the Easter morning service. The 
 large church was filled, the men on one side of the nave 
 by the pulpit, the women and girls facing it on the other. 
 (The children were one and all at their own Children's 
 Church in a court around the corner just under the ter- 
 race.) The snow-white table for the communion was 
 set down the length of the nave It was a brilliant morn- 
 ing, and the strong eastern sun shone through the sea- 
 green glass window behind the pulpit and fell upon the 
 upturned, earnest faces of the hundreds of white-capped 
 women and girls. Those faces were transfigured in that 
 pale green translucent light that caught here and there 
 on a gold or silver hair-band or a silver chalice. This 
 light took the strong color from their faces. It smoothed 
 away all lines of toil. The physical ravages of care and 
 hardship were annulled, and the spirit of worship was 
 free to give itself expression about the eyes and mouths. 
 I cannot imagine a sight at once more artistically beauti- 
 ful, more humanly appealing, more spiritually uplifting, 
 more suggestive of Humanity's possibilities. 
 
 Oh, Rembrandt van Ryn! If — it is a large one — if 
 only you had been born a hundred years before your 
 time! If you had been a member of the Catholic cult, and 
 
96 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 if you could have seen the interior of the Old Church of 
 Scheveningen on a bright Easter morning, you would 
 have painted a Madonna with just that same wondrous 
 light upon her face — the transfigured light of The Night 
 Watch — a light the influence of which would have 
 spiritualized a continent, even had your Madonna been 
 but a peasant mother of Scheveningen. 
 
 And the singing! The plain-song, without parts, of 
 hundreds of strong voices that are used to call to one 
 another across the abysses of the sea, its marvellous 
 resonance rising, falling, swelling like the sea-surge ! 
 This song thrilled like the sound of many waters, sending 
 forth in slow, deliberate diapason the worship of hundreds 
 of those strong men that go down to the sea in ships. I 
 shall never hear the like again, unless in Scheveningen. 
 Every cadence was a great wave of harmony that found 
 its echo in the sea — a requiem for those lost, a paean 
 for those saved, a thanksgiving and a prayer. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 SOME DIVERSIONS AND SOCIAL FUNCTIONS 
 
 During our winter in The Hague we had three enjoy- 
 ments which James called "chronic": One was the 
 Vyver and Vyverberg in the centre of the city, another 
 our fishing-village of Scheveningen, and the third the 
 beautiful Old Scheveningen Road. 
 
 The Vyver and its surroundings have been for two 
 centuries a classic of The Hague. It has been painted 
 more times than any other portion of the Netherlands, 
 with the exception of Scheveningen. We never tired of 
 it, whether we saw it by sunshine, by moonlight, in morn- 
 ing mists or at sundown. It is unique of its kind, and its 
 evolution from the "pond" through two centuries may 
 be traced in the paintings of the Gemeente, or Municipal, 
 Museum of The Hague which stands on the corner of the 
 Korte Vyverberg. The whole setting of this Vyver 
 is very beautiful; add to this that the buildings all 
 about are rich in the history and the making of history, 
 that they are connected with the names of some of its 
 greatest men, John and Cornelius de Witt and Van 
 Olden Barneveld, and one readily understands why it 
 appeals both to the eye and the imagination. The group- 
 ing and setting are shown in the title-page vignette; but 
 
 7 97 
 
98 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 the effect of color on the waters, on the island in the 
 middle, on the roofs of the Binnenhof buildings, must 
 be seen in order to realize why this locahty has become 
 a classic. 
 
 We used to stand on the Korte Vyverberg and look 
 down the length of the Vyver at sunset. In the 
 distance, against the deep crimson of Holland's winter 
 sunset, the tower of the Groote Kerk showed like a 
 delicate etching, the anatomy of the trees on the island 
 and along the Lange Vyverberg could be traced against 
 the glowing heavens, line for line, in branch and 
 twig. The roofs of the old buildings of the Binnenhof 
 were touched here and there with deep crimson shadows. 
 Here and there a window-pane caught the reflection 
 and flashed a signal from the Parliament buildings, and 
 the swans graced the rose-pink waters with their white- 
 ness. 
 
 In the early spring the effect was almost unreal, so 
 extraordinarily beautiful was the play of lights and 
 shadows upon and among the tender green of the young 
 foliage. The island was a green mist, the waters a reflec- 
 tion of white cloud-mottled heavens; the white facades of 
 the houses on the Korte Vyverberg seemed to shimmer 
 with the reflected light from the pond, the storks on the 
 island lifted their white-gray wings, as a lady lifts her 
 draperies from the street, and tiptoed in their dainty 
 "red shoon" of nature's make along the green-set tiny 
 shore. 
 
Some Diversions and Social Functions 99 
 
 It was but a step to the Gevangenpoort, or Prison 
 Gate, the first gate of the Netherlands through which 
 we entered into the history of this wonderful land, into 
 a conception of what it has cost the land to stand where 
 it does as a national entity. The prison with the "bloody 
 hand " in stone at Antwerp, and the Prison Gate in The 
 Hague stand for eighty years of martyrdom, national 
 and individual. These two and the "Srande Place" 
 in front of the Hotel de Ville at Brussels, where proud 
 Egmont and Horn went to the scaffold, still speak of 
 history with no uncertain sound. 
 
 James and I saw in all these "Motley illustrated," 
 and realized how he could write as he did of this nation 
 and its achievements. The Gevangenpoort contains all 
 the cruel instruments of the Spanish inquisition, save 
 the Iron Virgin, and brings one into close personal touch 
 with those two patriot brothers, John and Cornelius 
 de Witt. There is nothing left in the Netherlands that 
 speaks so loudly of Holland's history in those times that 
 tried men's souls as this old prison. Shut yourself into 
 one of the cells for the' condemned, and relive something 
 of the horror of a living death, then count the thousands 
 that suffered in truth and for the truth! I know of no 
 spot in Europe where history is so powerfully brought 
 home to one as here. Of the architecture of these 
 remarkable buildings, or poorts, throughout the Nether- 
 lands, James says — and I am sure he is authority — 
 that when a comprehensive history of Dutch architecture 
 
100 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 shall have been written, it will be time enough to go into 
 detail. Until then one may consult, if he will, the various 
 writers on Holland who have endeavored to convey to 
 their readers some idea of the architecture which is 
 Holland's alone; and with this all is said. 
 
 Our other chronic pleasure was the Oude Scheven- 
 ingsche Weg. It was always beautiful, always satisfying, 
 and the life along its various thoroughfares of tramway 
 and roadway, omnibus-filled and overflowing with 
 Scheveningen white caps and fish baskets, bicycle path, 
 sidewalk and riding path, always interesting and never 
 disappointing. On Sunday it was our delight to walk 
 along its length together with the crowds of sailors and 
 sailors' lassies. About New Year's, when all the fisher- 
 men make it a point to be at home with their families, 
 the avenue was alive with them, and their unique cos- 
 tumes — they don their best for holidays — made a 
 continuous stream of color from the lodge entrance to 
 the very shore itself. I never tired of watching the 
 independent swing of their multiple petticoats, the sheen 
 of their rich silk aprons, the wonderful colors in their 
 one-patterned cloaks, the superb carriage of their white- 
 coifed heads. We rejoiced in the sober courtships that 
 we saw begin with Christmas under the green-branched 
 trees, or in the "little Scheveningen woods," and end 
 about April with a betrothal in the marriage room of 
 the renovated old Stadhuis near the Groote Kerk. 
 
 We tried the opera, not once but several times; 
 
Some Diversions and Social Functions lOl 
 
 then we gave that up; it was no recreation and made us 
 homesick. No German operas are given in German, 
 and I heard but one Wagner opera, Tannhduser, while 
 there. It was given in Dutch, and the EHzabeth destroyed 
 all illusion, for she must have weighed fully two hundred 
 and fifty, and her white draperies were sufficiently 
 voluminous to fill a dry-goods show window. We tried 
 La Petite Boheme by an Italian company containing a 
 remarkable tenor. It was given in a new building, the 
 "Art and Science Building, " which is modern enough to be 
 provided with a fire-escape. I was startled one afternoon 
 in early spring, after leaving a symphony concert which 
 had been given in this building, to see a file of stately 
 mynheers and mevrouwen descending the walls of the 
 building by means of the new skeleton fire-escapes, 
 thus setting the public seal of their approval on this 
 innovation. I shall never forget that special performance 
 — nor the performance by the Italian troupe. 
 
 The building is large, with three galleries and a rect- 
 angular floor-space; it accommodates, I should judge, 
 about three thousand. When we entered the lights were 
 dim, but we discerned that the floor-space had a few 
 occupants only; the first gallery, for which we had 
 tickets, ditto. Above us there were more, and the 
 third loft — it was nothing but that — was filled to over- 
 flowing with Italians! The troupe was ItaHan, and every 
 Italian far and near had made it a test of patriotism to be 
 present. 
 
102 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 How they enjoyed that opera! And how we 
 enjoyed their enthusiasm! How the whole loft hissed 
 for quiet if so much as a sepulchral whisper was heard 
 from the thin ranks of the first-class ticket holders! 
 How they cheered the heroine — to the echo was no 
 misnomer in the great empty hall! How they wept and 
 sobbed over the pathos of the death scene! How they 
 almost fell over the rail in their endeavors to obtain a 
 last view of the tenor as they clapped and stamped and 
 "bravoed" him into the wings! But the last scene 
 proved almost too much for us both. The hero, long, 
 thin, curly-locked, and dressed in black, wept into a 
 handkerchief as large as a small tea-doily, and with 
 every drop of his head into the cloth something like an 
 answering sob shook the loft. When with frantic haste 
 he hauled and pulled and wrestled with a small typical 
 Dutch bedstead until he finally placed it in the middle 
 of the bare stage, and the heroine settled her draperies 
 upon it, the tension in the Italian contingent could be 
 felt, and there was audible a deep sigh. It was all so real 
 to the emotional, warm-hearted sons of the South! And 
 we were willing to shiver through the entire performance — 
 there is no heat for first, second, or third class in Holland, 
 even in February — and see our breath mist before our 
 very eyes, for the sake of enjoying their enjoyment. 
 The singing was fairly good, the acoustics and ventilation 
 poor. 
 
 The Royal Opera House is the favorite with the good 
 people of The Hague. It is sulEciently conservative to 
 
Some Diversions and Social Functions 103 
 
 suit them. I mean not only as to the operas presented, 
 but as to the arrangements for exit and entrance for 
 safety in case of fire. It is always crowded, for one 
 reason, it is the fashion. Every woman who can provide 
 herself with a season ticket does so at the risk, I was 
 told, in many cases of going without a third meal. 
 The result is one sees the same faces night after night. 
 They affect French opera, and the Italian operas are 
 given also in French. A consultation of the programs for a 
 month will show the repetition of such old acquaintances 
 as Martha, Faust, Mtgnon. What we should call ques- 
 tionable French opera is often presented. There is one 
 Mephistopheles on the stage whom I have never seen 
 equalled for acting, and whose compass and beauty of 
 voice are remarkable. Of the others little can be said. 
 The Hague remains, despite its population of more than 
 two hundred and fifty thousand, provincial in most 
 respects. The opera, the opera house, and the patronage 
 show this, as well as the dimly lighted streets and the 
 only recent introduction of a few lines of electric 
 trams. 
 
 It may not be amiss to give a fact or two about this 
 special opera house, so beloved by the dwellers in The 
 Hague. And they are what James calls "personally 
 conducted facts," our own experience. 
 
 A tax is paid on the seats besides the price of the 
 tickets. James said that ought to insure our being shown 
 to our seats by ushers, but this proved a vain supposition. 
 James hung up his coat and I my wraps in a narrow 
 
104 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 corridor indifferently lighted. He paid the fee the woman 
 demanded, and asked for an usher. There was no usher 
 for us. An employee opened a narrow door and motioned 
 us in. We motioned to him to show us seats. He shook 
 his head and shut the door on us. The lights in the house 
 were down ; the curtain had just been rung up in Faust. 
 We felt our way down a steep flight of steps to a level of 
 the floor which, like all else in Holland, appeared to be 
 considerably below sea level. In the crowded house we 
 discerned ahead of us two vacant chairs and we made 
 for them, past a phalanx of solid womanhood that did not 
 budge one inch for us. They proved to be our numbers. 
 There were no aisles; no proper exits; no marks by 
 which, in the darkness, we could have found our way 
 out, or distinguish door from wall. It was one packed 
 human mass from floor to ceiling. There was no venti- 
 lation, and the temperature, owing to the many people 
 and hermetically sealed interior, about eighty degrees. 
 If it had not been for Marcoux's magnificent voice — I 
 wonder that our country has not heard him in some of 
 our great centres — we would have worked our laborious 
 passage out again, and been thankful to escape with our 
 lives. 
 
 As it was, we remained through the wearisome "pause" 
 to the end, and, during the fifteen minutes that it 
 lasted, had the doubtful pleasure of reading a rhyme 
 painted in large letters on the asbestos drop-curtain, 
 which exhorted us in case of fire to keep cool, go out 
 
Some Diversions and Social Functions 105 
 
 on the street, and remember that we were on a level 
 •with it. 
 
 "Now I call that the finest kind of irony that has ever 
 come in my way," said James, as we left the fire-trap at 
 a quarter of twelve; "to put hundreds of human beings 
 into that puddler's pit where a panic would mean certain 
 death to most of us, and admonish us in poetry from an 
 asbestos curtain, that can't burn, to 'keep cool and clear 
 out, because the street is near at hand.' That out- 
 Dutches the Dutch ! How do they expect us to get out ? 
 There are no exits except those cattle drives of doors 
 reached by a two-foot wide step-ladder! We'll try the 
 balcony next time." And we tried it to our entire satis- 
 faction, for we thereby proved that Dutch Royal Opera 
 Houses are not the places for honest Americans who 
 value their lives. 
 
 Thomas' Mignon was to be given on request. We 
 scented the presence of the court in that announcement 
 and secured the best seats to be had in the second balcony. 
 The season ticket holders preempt the house on such 
 occasions. We climbed two steep flights, turned into 
 a blind landing, toiled up a third winding flight and 
 deposited our wraps in a corridor lighted by one flaring 
 gas jet. The balconies are divided into what James 
 called "box stalls." Each stall is provided with some 
 twelve seats tier above tier. Every seat was occupied 
 and people sitting on the steps. Fancy that! No possible 
 exit to right or left. It was a case — as James grumbled 
 
106 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 into my ear from his seat behind me — of paying your 
 money to take your choice of a leap over the balustrade 
 into the orchestra seats, or of climbing the steep ascent 
 behind us on the shoulders of other men and women, 
 only to be wedged at last into a two and a half foot door- 
 way from which there was a "blind exit." He is not 
 often nervous in public places and never in real crises, 
 but he was that evening. 
 
 It was a gala night for the house, and the audience was 
 in full Dutch dress. A moment before the curtain was 
 rung up the house rose as one to greet their queen as she 
 entered the royal box. I had already had a certain kind 
 of presentation at court, and her features were not unfa- 
 miliar. I sat there nearly opposite to her for three hours, 
 and I had time to study the face of this young royal 
 ruler. The face had always interested me as I had 
 seen it in photographs, it was so full of life and the joy 
 of living. At eighteen she was a beauty. At twenty-six 
 she has aged nearly twenty years from that youth. It is 
 sad, pathetic almost, to see such a change; for to the 
 young, life's cup should be brimmed to overflowing. 
 This is the "divine right "of youth. Poor little queen! 
 Too young to bear the burdens of a royal name and 
 what it entails! My Scheveningen mother with her two 
 baby girls and six months' boy, with the scant two dol- 
 lars and a half for her fisher-husband's eleven days of 
 toil on the great North Sea, possesses treasures for 
 which you would give all your riches, your castles and 
 
Some Diversions and Social Functions 107 
 
 palaces, to make them yours. God pity the woman in 
 the queen! 
 
 I have no knowledge of the actual state of mind of the 
 loyal Dutch in the anomalous position in which their 
 kingdom is placed by the present circumstances of their 
 royal house of Orange-Nassau; but, from what I gathered 
 from the speech of a few wise men, young and old,andfrom 
 the trend of the public mind as reflected in the daily press, 
 I may venture to predict that, in case the direct succession 
 of the House of Orange-Nassau should fail, the Dutch 
 Republic will be no longer an idle name or a memory of 
 the past. The United Provinces of the Netherlands 
 must fulfil their destiny whether or no, as must every 
 other nation. Republican in spirit they have ever been, 
 republican in name they may still become, but never in 
 the lifetime of their beloved queen. May it be a long 
 one, and full of good works among her people ! 
 
 After our exit from the opera, James sighed for the 
 "fleshpots of Egypt": the cosy supper at Young's which 
 we used to enjoy because with us such treats were neces- 
 sarily rare. He found the poor beer, the poorer coffee, 
 the poorest of poor buns, which were provided downstairs 
 for the material refreshment in the exhausting "pause," 
 an unworthy substitute for the home delicacies of soft- 
 shelled crab, etc. After trying this "diversion" of opera 
 going in Holland several times, I urged him to give it 
 up. It actually made him blue. I tried to have him see 
 some fun in the stolid crowds that, after dinner, prom- 
 
108 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 enaded up and down the Lange Poten, but his usually 
 keen sense of humor failed to be whetted by this diversion 
 also. In this case I laid it to the mist and darkness. But 
 he said he couldn't see common sense, not to mention 
 fun, in my wanting to entice him to "go with the proces- 
 sion"; no shops lighted, no cafes illuminated, no sidewalk, 
 everybody in the middle of the narrow street, a dark, 
 silent, moving throng tramping back and forth — for 
 what ? Just to tramp because their great-grandfathers 
 happened to tramp there before them! And so on. 
 
 I found this method of killing time for James a useless 
 one, so wisely gave it up, and indulged him by going 
 twice as often to the shore, where he was never tired of 
 walking or riding, for riding there was. We had that 
 pleasure many times; a good mount and a brisk gallop up 
 and down the hard sand floor of the North Sea when the 
 tide was out, the wind fresh in our faces, the waves 
 crisping afar, and the Dutch cavalry on the distant strand 
 manoeuvring with great show of charging the retreating 
 waves and retreating from the advancing ones, was a real 
 tonic. They made a pretty show on the beach, these small 
 divisions of cavalry, detachments from the standing army 
 of the Netherlands, and they, together with the shining 
 brass milk cans, the gay carts and the Scheveningen 
 fishwives, often brightened our avenue as they jolted 
 and rattled through it with their empty gun-carriages. 
 
 I ventured to ask the Captain, an acquaintance 
 whom we had made through letters of introduction, the 
 
Some Diversions and Social Functions 109 
 
 size of the standing army, and could hardly keep my 
 countenance when he informed me, "About four thou- 
 sand." He added that the raw recruits in the spring 
 would increase the number to twenty, and they could call 
 upon a trained reserve of two hundred thousand. After- 
 wards, when I recalled the fact that, until recently, our 
 great United States had done very well with twenty-four 
 thousand, I was sorry I had felt an inclination to laugh. 
 His statement agreed perfectly with a newspaper para- 
 graph in regard to the camps provided for the sufferers 
 from the floods which occurred later in the spring; it 
 ran: A detachment of troops has been sent to the spot 
 consisting of one officer, two under officers and ten men. 
 
 Evidently it is not quantity but quality that tells with 
 nations as with individuals when it comes to prowess in 
 arms. The small Dutch army continues to manoeuvre 
 on land and in water, like amphibians, and to practise 
 its evolutions like any other body of bold defenders. It 
 sends its officers and men to India, to the Spice Islands, 
 to all its foreign dependencies, and the men return broad- 
 ened by contact with other civilizations, and work as 
 leaven in their native land. Were the Netherlands ever 
 threatened with foreign invasion, not a man, woman, or 
 child but would resist to the death. This is the brave 
 little land's surest defense. 
 
 But for one diversion James was always ready, after 
 I had introduced him to it. There is a fascinating winkel, 
 or corner shop, on Prlnse Straat, all glass window and 
 
110 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 immaculate tiling. A range of curious construction is 
 set against one wall, and a man and woman attend to it. 
 The man in white duck sits on a stool beside a pewter 
 tub and ladles out of it a spoonful of a certain mixture. 
 He pours it upon a large iron mould and the substance 
 comes out in a half-dozen waffles. They are unlike any- 
 thing but themselves, and once James had a taste of them, 
 he could never have enough. No day was too dark, no 
 weather too inclement, no work so pressing as to prevent 
 his accepting my frequent invitation to the "waffle- 
 winkel" for the pleasant sake of eating them with poffertje 
 additions. Take a tray of sand and dimple it with 
 drops of water, and you will have in miniature the 
 mould of a poffertje iron. The poffertje itself is a round 
 puffy fritter. 
 
 Many an afternoon in the dark — the delicacies are 
 made only from four to six — we have stood at the 
 clear-shining window and watched the waffle-chef at 
 his fascinating work. An American or any other 
 waffle has not even a speaking acquaintance with the 
 genuine Dutch article as manufactured in the corner 
 winkel. It would need a Charles Lamb's descriptive 
 powers of "suckling" and "crackling" to catalogue 
 their excellence. They are crisp, melting, tender, succu- 
 lent, I think, at least they gave me that impression, it 
 might have been the thin syrup added to them, and wholly 
 digestible. At all the little and big kermesses there are 
 poffertje and waffle booths, both well patronized. But 
 
Some Diversions and Social Functions ill 
 
 there are waffles and waffles, poffertjes and poffertjes, and 
 those in the shop on Prinse Straat are as superior to all 
 others, as a Delmonico lunch is superior to one served 
 over the counter of a Fourth Avenue restaurant. After 
 we had watched the fascinating process for a while, James 
 would exclaim, "That's mine!" and rush in to the 
 small, dark, back room, furnished with two tables and 
 a few chairs, and order that special lot. 
 
 He never had to be cajoled into a trip to Rotterdam to 
 see the impressive mass of old St. Lawrence's tower 
 from that special corner of the Groote Kerkplein diagonally 
 opposite the Street of the Tower, where stands the tiny 
 old house with the fruit-postal-and-candy wtnkel on the 
 first floor. We saw it once at noon when a multitude of 
 doves came down into the irregular Place to be fed. The 
 air was aflutter with them; the roofofthe nave, that sloped 
 to the Place, white with them; the steep gable of the tiny 
 ivinkelwzs alive with them, and there were bright sunshine 
 and blue sky — an exceptional winter day — to perfect 
 the picture. Only Venice, and its Piazza at dove-feeding 
 time, can equal this. 
 
 We were not loath to walk afterwards to the noble 
 windmill on the Coolvest, or over to the Boompjes, the 
 old-time "little trees" on the Maas Quay from which one 
 may see half the riches of South Holland on the water. 
 We used to run into the Boymans Museum for the sake 
 of looking at those two canvases by Ary Scheffer — Count 
 Eberhard and his son — and to find the few by our 
 
112 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 favorites, Israels, Mesdag and Maris. We liked always 
 to give a special greeting to that fine, small boy by Jan 
 van Scorel, the great predecessor of Rembrandt. 
 
 With Amsterdam distant only forty-five minutes 
 by express we found it not taxing to go over for a few 
 hours and enjoy the glories of the Ryks. Perhaps there was 
 a walk afterwards along busy KalverStraat, and a stepping 
 aside from all the rush and roar of the metropolitan life 
 into the lovely Begynenhof, unheeded by many, because 
 unknown. I recall one day in April when we were there, 
 and the noise and confusion of Kalver Straat, the Dam 
 and Damrak, drove us into this oasis of rest and quiet 
 beauty. You will find it, if you look for it; and you may 
 enter from Kalver Straat and make your exit by the Spui, 
 or vice versa. No noise of traffic penetrates into these 
 courts which are in the very heart of the commercial dis- 
 trict. The old church, the quaint houses, the ancient 
 pump in the middle of the court, if it can be said to 
 have a middle, the entrance like a close, and the exit 
 through a portal, all invest this one spot with a charm 
 not easy to define. 
 
 This church is now Protestant, but there is hidden 
 away behind a common house exterior on another side 
 of the court a little Catholic chapel. A common street 
 entrance to a steep flight of stairs gives one no hint of the 
 beauty within the baize doors. The stairs gave upon the 
 gallery of the chapel. There was no one there but our 
 two selves. Oh, the perfect peace of that lovely interior! 
 
Some Diversions and Social Functions lis 
 
 Where was the commerce ? Where the daily strife for 
 gain ? Where the sound of the money-changers ? The 
 sunlight brightened everything; the exquisite candelabra, 
 the hanging gold lamp, the quaint pulpit. Below, near 
 the altar on which the tapers were dimmed by the sun- 
 light, a nun was making ready the Repository, for it was 
 Holy Week. She was moving softly about her reverential 
 work of love, as, I doubt not, the Sisters of St. Begga 
 moved about intent on the same holy errand centuries 
 ago. 
 
 One can understand the staying power of the Catholic 
 cult when one happens to witness such a scene as this. I 
 could have knelt at the feet of that "Mother Mary," so 
 warm and human and sympathetic was this little chapel 
 after the barren, whitewashed, chill and dreary wastes of 
 the Groote Kerks and the Oude Kerks that seem to have 
 missed their calling since the introduction into them 
 of another form of worship. 
 
 But all honor to the Dutch people and their leaders 
 that such a service can take place in the heart of Amster- 
 dam to-day! That the fiery furnace, seven times heated, 
 of the never-to-be-forgotten Inquisition, through which 
 they were made to pass, left them refined into toleration, 
 at last, of all religions, and caused them to grant perfect 
 freedom of worship to one and all believers in their 
 midst. 
 
 Would that our revered Pilgrim Fathers had from 
 the first taken this lesson to heart! 
 
114 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 The social functions were few and far between, but so 
 thoroughly Dutch in character that I may be pardoned 
 for recording what otherwise would be trivial personal- 
 ities. 
 
 I have mentioned a "kind of presentation at court." 
 This statement, if I left it unfinished, might lead to the 
 supposition that I was a welcome member of the court 
 circles while in the capital of the Netherlands. This is so 
 far from the truth that it becomes a matter of conscience 
 to make an explanation. An American, an acquaintance 
 of ours, was anticipating a "presentation at court" 
 through the mediation of a lady in waiting to the queen 
 during the week in Amsterdam which by custom and 
 law the crowned head of the Netherlands must pass 
 there once a year. At least, that is the way the lady 
 made the statement to me. I reported it to James. 
 Now, whether my husband was a little piqued because 
 his wife had no friends at court to make her known to 
 the queen — because he really has a very good opinion 
 of his wife and wants her to have "the best" with "the 
 best" — or whether, as I half suspect, he was laughing at 
 my suddenly developed imperialistic tendencies and 
 wanted to cure me of any flights into the higher latitudes 
 of Dutch royalty, I cannot say, for I do not know. But 
 I am inclined to think the latter motive was the true one 
 for his action. I only know for a fact that one morning 
 in December he looked up from the newspaper and 
 said: 
 
Some Diversions and Social Functions lis 
 
 "Come with me, Persis, and I will present you at 
 court, that is, all the court at which you will have an 
 opportunity to shine during our winter in The Hague." 
 
 I was surprised, but asked no questions, as I was 
 willing to be surprised further, and I hoped pleasantly. 
 James took me down the Old Scheveningen Road 
 that even on that dark chill day, looked inviting; for 
 the grass, wherever it showed, was emerald green, and 
 the great tree trunks moss-green; the huge brass milk 
 cans on the tiny carts looked like shining gold, the riding 
 path was lively with riders, and the white caps of the 
 peasants everywhere in evidence. We went on down 
 Zee Straat and stopped long enough to take a look at 
 our Utrecht poulterer's shop. We leaned a moment 
 on the bridge by the Scheveningscheveer, or ferry, where 
 one sees a pretty bit of the old-time 's Gravenhage, 
 another name for The Hague, and then on down the 
 Noord Einde to the square opposite the palace which 
 is the winter residence of the queen. 
 
 A few people were gathered there, and James took 
 his stand, with me at his side, by the pediment of the 
 equestrian statue of William the Silent. It was a silent 
 crowd that little by little gathered with us! There was 
 no chat, no jest, no greeting, no fussing about, no blowing 
 on cold fingers, for the day was chilly, no stamping of 
 feet for warmth — nothing but a dead silence. I at 
 once guessed the reason of this gathering: the queen 
 was expected in from her country place, Het Loo, near 
 
116 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 Apeldoorn, and a portion of her loyal subjects were 
 foregathering to welcome her. I realized then that this 
 was to be my presentation at court, and in my own mind 
 began to consider ways and means to reward James 
 for his trifling thus with me. But I said no word. Neither 
 did he. The shadow of William the Silent was upon us, 
 or would have been if there had been any sun. 
 
 A few police in top-heavy helmets paced back and 
 forth keeping the line, which scarcely wavered an inch, 
 from the square. Now and then an officer pranced and 
 caracoled up the street. Meanwhile we were kept back 
 from the thoroughfare of the Noord Einde which runs 
 through the square and was open to traffic. Old Dutch 
 ladies with umbrella and dog took as usual the middle 
 of the street and kept the right of way; handcarts of 
 all kinds trundled after them; grocers' boys on bicycles, 
 their huge baskets mounted in front of them, coke carts, 
 milk carts, vegetable carts, dog carts, now and then an 
 automobile, a squad of police, urbaines, passed by us, 
 but no voice was heard! Two puppies, even, that were 
 rolling over and over in a tangled snarl, failed to growl. 
 The crowd increased to perhaps three hundred. They 
 had waited already three-quarters of an hour in the 
 cold. At last there was a movement, a craning of short 
 necks, the sounding of a postilion's horn. No, it was 
 only a fishwife. The crowd settled back again. A 
 hackney coach drove up to the palace loaded with all 
 sorts of luggage. A lackey came out. Another cab and 
 
Some Diversions and Social Functions 117 
 
 another and another followed, all loaded with parcels 
 and traps of every description. Some modest, plain- 
 looking people got out and entered the palace. 
 
 After a procession of this sort, together with the 
 vendors' carts, had held the Noord Einde for fifteen min- 
 utes, a modest carriage drove up with a footman and 
 coachman. The necks craned again. The queen and her 
 consort had come, and heads were bared with much the 
 same gesture as at funeral obsequies; but not a word, 
 not a cheer, not one wave of a handkerchief, except my 
 own! There was a bow without a smile from the occu- 
 pants of the carriage, and the palace doors closed behind 
 the royal pair. The Dutch put on their hats and still 
 stood — from the force of inertia. An Englishwoman, 
 who stood beside me during the long wait, turned to me 
 and said: "If that had been our king we should have 
 yelled. Did you ever see the like.?" And I answered 
 truthfully that I never had. Now every one knows the 
 loyalty of the Dutch to their queen and their love for 
 her, but no one would ever have suspected it from that 
 chilly reception. I was told afterwards that the queen 
 dislikes any demonstration on the part of her people. 
 Speaking as an extremely private individual, who does 
 not pretend to criticise royalty of any kind, it would 
 seem more politic at least to encourage a little heat of 
 enthusiasm among the Dutch. There is little enough 
 in the whole land — the climate, heredity, and history 
 for the past three hundred years are against it; but, oh! 
 
118 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 if she could but know how a good hearty ringing cheer 
 would have warmed her heart on that chilly day when 
 she came back to the capital in which she dislikes to 
 dwell! If she could hear that sound often she might live 
 on its loving strength through many a trial, present and 
 future. 
 
 This was my only presentation at court. James asked 
 me how I liked it. 
 
 "I haven't been half so much bored as I should be 
 in Amsterdam; besides, this function has saved the ex- 
 pense of a court dress. So you're in pocket by it, my 
 dear. Let's go in and have a chocolate to warm us 
 through." 
 
 There was little after this in the way of "society." 
 But we attended the masked ball of the winter given 
 by members of the gentry and nobility — • a private 
 affair to which we were bidden by our new and helpful 
 acquaintance, the Captain of La Haye, as we called him 
 between ourselves ; a man whom it was not only a pleasure 
 to know but one whom we would have liked to reckon 
 among the five or six friends we may count upon. We were 
 privileged to make that friendship afterwards, and were 
 glad to know so sturdy a Dutchman who showed us the 
 finest traits of the Dutch character at our own fireside. 
 As an artistic affair the bal masque was beyond anything 
 we could offer in our own country. The costumes were real 
 costumes, and we realized these people had many gen- 
 erations of ancestors from which to draw upon in the 
 matter of detail in dress. It was a brilliant affair, and 
 
Some Diversions and Social Functions 119 
 
 for once I had the pleasure of seeing "high Dutch life" 
 amuse itself in its own way. 
 
 We enjoyed most the quiet little dinners at home, with 
 the Captain to tell us so much of interest concerning 
 his own country. We could hardly wait for the spring 
 to roam a bit and see something of what he told us. He 
 was a nature lover, and his country's soft beauty and har- 
 monious coloring satisfied him more than the grandeurs 
 of other lands. 
 
 Perhaps the greatest trial to our nerves was the Week 
 of Sundays. From Christmas, of which the Dutch until 
 recent years have made little as a fete, and only now is 
 the English custom of "trees" beginning to obtain among 
 them, until the third of January the whole city appeared 
 as if in mourning. Five days out of the seven were called 
 Sundays and treated as regular holy days. A stock 
 of provisions had to be laid in, milk, bread, etc., for 
 three days. There is no selling. The shops are closed. 
 There is no singing in the churches to mark the day, and 
 no decorations. The working people do not work; the 
 leisure class wear away the time. Scheveningen alone 
 became towards New Year's uproarious — but Scheven- 
 ingen is Scheveningen, and although no kermess is held, 
 the license of the kermess prevails. James saw a sailor 
 mounted on a cow faring down Keizer Stfaat, and the 
 drunkenness was pronounced to that extent that the 
 police were doubled. It was the only time that a woman 
 might not go at night the length and breadth of The 
 Hague and its fishing suburb with impunity. The whole 
 
120 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 population is for three hundred and sixty days in the year 
 so decorous, that when once it gives the reins to its idea 
 of having "a good time" one must expect surprises of 
 an unusual kind. Our New Year's reception, for in- 
 stance, was something never to be forgotten. 
 
 At nine o'clock our first caller made his appearance 
 dressed in white duck trousers and white cotton gloves. 
 He sent in his card. It read: A happy New Tear to 
 you from those Without Work. A promising beginning! 
 He received the regulation gift which Anna Engelina 
 informed me was a kwartje, ten cents. He had some- 
 thing also from James, who was vexed with me for con- 
 forming to so mean a custom as the gift of a k-juartje on 
 New Year's! "For heaven's sake, Persis, give the poor 
 devils enough to live on for one day at least!" he said, 
 and followed the man out to give him something more 
 substantial 
 
 After that we had a continuous stream of callers until 
 four in the afternoon. Every one sent in his or her card 
 with good wishes expressed in every conceivable way. 
 These cards were mostly printed with the name of the 
 caller. I received my werkvrouw in this way, my butcher's 
 man, my butter-boy, my milkman and baker, my grocer- 
 boy, my cokeman, my other fuel man, my poultry-girl, 
 the street sweeper, the man who attends to the water 
 mains, the postman who brought letters, the postman 
 who brought packages, the postman who brought papers — 
 there is a division of labor in Dutchland — the man who 
 
Some Diversions and Social Functions 121 
 
 brought the daily paper, and so forth and so on. I can't 
 remember them all. I only know I sat in my dining- 
 room with a stream of kwartjes dribbling out of my 
 purse and that James sneaked out of the front door — 
 they all are privileged to call at that on reception days — 
 and handed out guldens till about twelve, when his 
 small change gave out and he began to see, although he 
 would not acknowledge it, that I was right in keeping 
 within the bounds of custom, for he soon realized there 
 was no immediate prospect of an end. 
 
 After the regular callers had ceased to send in their 
 cards, we had a raid of beggars. From five o'clock on, 
 they pressed their wild appealing faces, most of them 
 women and girls, some children and men, against the 
 great window-pane in the dining-room, sometimes as 
 many as four at once, and begged and begged until 
 James put on his coat and fled to the beach. He said he 
 "needed exercise," but it was because he could not bear 
 the sight of those faces and hands that would not be 
 denied. It is the one day when the so-called proletariat 
 is privileged. 
 
 The Dutch, like every other nation, has its own 
 industrial questions to regulate and settle, and it is 
 confronted like other lands with serious situations which 
 are beyond the wisdom of man to control. 
 
 I held no other large reception during my residence in 
 the Dutch capital. James said one was enough for him. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE KNOCKING AT THE GATES 
 
 Every few years there is an insignificant break in 
 some dyke by which a small polder is flooded, acres of 
 arable land ruined and some one or two families lose 
 their homes. Now and then it happens that a portion 
 of a dyke on some one of the islands of Zeeland is under- 
 mined by the constant gnawing of the tides, and crumbles; 
 a breach is made through which the sea-water enters 
 and covers the farm lands, bringing to naught the work 
 of generations and making new shoals to exercise the 
 mariner's caution. 
 
 There is but one watchword for this land: Eternal 
 vigilance. This watchword entails such foresight, such 
 exercise of engineering powers, such espionage, such 
 labor in repairing and strengthening the sea defences, 
 the sea and river-gates, that only those who have been 
 privileged to see something of these works, — these ram- 
 parts and bastions against the invasion of the waters, 
 — and witness the devastation caused by a general 
 breaking of the dykes, when the sea enters triumphant 
 and inundates the land, can realize something of this 
 word's significance. 
 
 The story of the breaking of the dykes and the great 
 
 122 
 
The Knocking at the Gates 123 
 
 inundations, caused by the inrush of the sea, has been 
 told from father to son for many generations. Yet, 
 despite this, and the fact that it stands written in rec- 
 ords and old chronicles, the thought of all that terror 
 of devastation is dim now; the reading is almost like 
 a myth. Those times when provinces, cities, villages, 
 were overwhelmed, when great forests disappeared from 
 sight beneath the waters never more to be seen above 
 the engulfing waves, seem, even to the Dutch themselves, 
 tinged with the fabulous. 1200 is so far away; 1500 not 
 much nearer, and the middle of the seventeenth cen- 
 tury, when a great inundation took place, a remove of 
 eight generations — long enough in the past to allay any 
 fear, with the watchword ever in mind, for the present. 
 Since the seventeenth century no flood of great impor- 
 tance has occurred until this year. 
 
 One evening after dinner the Captain was showing 
 us an army map of the provinces of Utrecht and Gelder- 
 land, and marking out for James' instruction and mine 
 the line of water defences which would be opened in 
 case of foreign invasion. They extend deep into the 
 land. He told us that as a child he had seen a break 
 in a dyke near 's Hertogenbosch, or Bois le Due, in the 
 province of North Brabant, and what an impression it 
 had made upon him. By his father also, who had been 
 d'ykgraaf, or Dyke Count — Superintendent of Dykes 
 — he had been told of one by which their home was 
 flooded and valuables ruined by the water. 
 
124 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 "But," said James, "have you no fear now ?" 
 
 "Oh, no," he replied in his earnest way; "they are so 
 strong now; we have no fear." 
 
 This was in February when high water was reported 
 all along the Upper and Lower Rhine, and the thou- 
 sand or more windmills on the Zaan, north of Amster- 
 dam, appeared, from the illustrations in the newspapers, 
 to be setting sail for a long voyage down stream. Both 
 banks were under water. The rise of the inland waters 
 is gauged with such nicety, and the system of "coming 
 high water danger signals" and the telegraphy so per- 
 fect, that from hour to hour a rise of the Upper Rhine 
 or of the Maas, is recorded and telegraphed all along the 
 line of waterways and the infinite number of branches, 
 that the inhabitants may take every precaution by clos- 
 ing the river-gates to guard their property from de- 
 struction. In this way much danger to shipping, 
 wharves, warehouses, farm lands and private property 
 is averted. This is also true of the Scheldt. 
 
 But it is quite another thing when the confines of the 
 German Ocean become too small for their contents. Then 
 there is nothing for it but to wait upon the powers of 
 wind and tide, and hope they may not combine at an 
 inopportune moment. If the conditions of high north- 
 west winds and abnormally high tides obtain at the 
 same time that the Upper Rhine and the Maas, swollen 
 by rains and melting winter-ice, send down their fulness 
 to the North Sea, there would seem to be but little that 
 ''ould save the land. That the North Sea might rise up 
 
The Knocking at the Gates 125 
 
 in its might and pour over the tops of the dykes, was not 
 to be imagined by the present and a few preceding 
 generations. 
 
 But this is just what occurred, to the utter terror and 
 consternation of the inhabitants of this hollow-land, 
 much of it so far below the level of the sea and merely 
 reclaimed sea-bottom. As a result, lack of confidence 
 in the dykes as protection has been engendered, faith 
 in the resisting power of the sea and river-gates has 
 waned, and a haunting fear of danger substituted. 
 
 From the middle of January high winds prevailed, 
 sometimes for a week. The Old Scheveningen Road 
 after one of these windstorms was strewn with branches; 
 the sand was blown into Keizer Straat. There were 
 wrecks reported all along the coast. The shipping broke 
 loose in the Maas. We read in the morning paper only 
 a word or two: "Helder No. — gone down," and we 
 knew that broken hearts and orphans' tears were filling 
 some humble home near the great northern dyke with 
 pain of loss. And this high wind continued to shriek 
 and roar around the eaves and down the chimneys 
 until, as James said, "it got on the nerves." During 
 these nights little sleep for anyone was possible within 
 two miles of the shore. The esplanade above the Old 
 Church was not to be attempted. We wanted to see 
 the sea from there, but the drift of spume and sand was 
 like a mist, and would have dimmed all sight even could 
 we have stood against the pressure. 
 
 We read of the overfull Rhine, the overflowing Maas, 
 
126 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 the lawless Scheldt. A few months afterwards we saw 
 recorded on a public building just above the steamer 
 landing at Coblentz, the height of the Rhine at that 
 time — the highest water mark ever recorded there. 
 We went down to Rotterdam one day and found the 
 water in the Coolvest in the centre of the city even with 
 the street. These winds continued to blow at intervals 
 until near the middle of March; then suddenly they 
 increased to almost hurricane force. For fifty hours a 
 northwest wind howled like a thousand fiends let loose, 
 shrieked like a bedlam of banshees, wailed like the lost 
 souls of a whole race, and deluged the coast lands from 
 The Helder to Zeeland-Flanders in sounding fury. It 
 was the time of the spring tides, and they were abnor- 
 mally high. For days the German Ocean had been 
 pouring its waters, driven by the furious winds south- 
 eastwards, onto the coast. For two days and nights 
 the sound of the rising tides carried on the great winds 
 boomed in our ears. Then the Unexpected happened. 
 
 We can never forget that night. The tide turned about 
 two, and its coming was heralded from afar by a sound 
 so awful that no words are adequate to describe it. All 
 that night the great spring tide, goaded by the gale, con- 
 tinued to heap itself higher and higher and hurl itself 
 against every rampart of the coast — against every dune, 
 every dyke, from The Helder to Walcheren. It hammered 
 on the iron flood-gates of the sea, it pounded against the 
 
DESOLATION 
 OUD~VOSMEER 
 
The Knocking at the Gates 127 
 
 dunes, breaking them and undermining them. It rolled 
 up to every wooden river-gate and tried to force an en- 
 trance. In the terror of that dark early morning, the 
 belfries on the churches throughout the threatened land 
 sent forth their warning; but it was too late. At seven 
 o'clock of March 12th, the thunderous knocking of the 
 sea at the gates of the trembling land was obeyed. The 
 sea refused to be denied admittance. It claimed its 
 own again. A dyke gave way on Tholen, another in 
 South Zeeland. The dykes in South Beveland heard 
 the call and opened. At Antwerp there was a break 
 of several hundred feet. In the sea defenses of The 
 Helder a great rent was made. Marken was a watery 
 expanse. The polders north and south were under 
 water. The sea-dyke at Moddergat was broken. At 
 St. Annaland the sea-defense opened for two hundred 
 and forty feet. Oud-Vosmeer was drowned out, and 
 the skippers of Tholen sailed their sloops and schooners 
 through the great rents in the dykes from one village 
 to another! 
 
 The sea had forced its entrance, and, not content with 
 breaking the dykes, had risen up and poured over the 
 protecting ramparts, flooding the polders, containing a 
 hundred thousand acres of the richest tillage in the Nether- 
 lands, rendering thousands homeless, destroying barns, 
 wharves, warehouses, dwellings, drowning thousands of 
 cattle and sheep, burying graveyards deep beneath sea 
 sand, stripping trees of branches and hedges of twigs, 
 
128 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 stripping, also, from hundreds of families their hope and 
 every earthly possession. 
 
 Had this cataclysm occurred in the night there would 
 have been another record for the centuries of thousands 
 who had found death in the merciless sea. But human 
 life was spared, and, after the second great tide of 
 March 13th, that completed the devastation, the sea 
 ceased to knock at these great Water-Gates of the 
 Netherlands, and left the half-drowned land and its 
 forlorn people free to draw one breath without being 
 in terror of their Hves. 
 
 As an aftermath, we saw one day the women of the 
 nobility and gentry, with bands on their arms, on which 
 was printed, "For the sufferers from the Flood," and a 
 tin cup in their hands, standing on the street corners and 
 walking the avenues of The Hague, asking alms. They 
 let no one pass them whether on foot or on horse, whether 
 a Scheveningen peasant woman, or a lady of the court, 
 a vegetable vendor with his cart, or an officer on horse- 
 back. They thrust their tin cups into both public and 
 private carriages; they appealed to every passer-by, were 
 he banker, butcher, president of the senate, or day 
 laborer. A cent was received with the same cordial 
 thanks as a gulden or a stiff bank note. The young 
 Ruler went down into the stricken islands to show her 
 people her sympathy by her presence. An 'old woman 
 on Tholen asked her queen into an humble fisher's hut 
 
The Knocking at the Gates 129 
 
 and bade her rest. A Tholen youngster of five went up 
 to Her Majesty — which was no majesty to him — and of 
 his own accord extended the small hand of fellowship 
 with a cordial, "How do you do, Queen ?" or Kwaen, as 
 he pronounced it in his dialect. It was the one touch that 
 made all the world akin for a moment — for a moment, 
 only, alas! But I fancy Life itself showed another, 
 a new face to the young queen at that moment. 
 
 I, too, wanted to go down into Zeeland at the time of 
 the great inundation; but James objected, and the Cap- 
 tain advised us to wait for the tardy spring. The weather 
 was inclement, the land flooded, trains running irregu- 
 larly and a possible prospect of railroad dykes giving 
 way, and more dykes succumbing to the inevitable. He 
 further advised us if we should find our stay limited in 
 the Netherlands, to spend most of our time in Zeeland. 
 He declared it to be the most interesting portion of his 
 country, and we were quite sure he knew his own land. 
 And he told us, moreover, that the only true way to see 
 the characteristic beauty of his land was from its water 
 ways. Thereupon I had what I shall always consider an 
 inspiration: I proposed to James to hire a boat and 
 knock at these same sea and river-gates, as well as at all 
 the other gates of cities and towns, and inform ourselves 
 about these defences of dunes and dykes, and the life of 
 the people who live either on or behind them. James 
 agreed at once, and immediately asked the Captain to 
 join us as companion and guide. He was not loath, I 
 
 9 
 
130 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 am pleased to say, to accept our invitation, and promised 
 us so to arrange his furlough, if possible, that he might 
 be with us at least three weeks in Zeeland, and a day or 
 two in some other place. He begged us not to go into 
 any detail of paraphernalia for sleeping and eating, as, 
 from time immemorial, the water ways of the Netherlands 
 had been its highways, and beds and food could be found 
 in passable inns all along our route which he therewith 
 sketched out for us, — much to our delight, for it coin- 
 cided with certain lines of travel which we had planned 
 to follow. 
 
 How we looked for the spring! And how it tanta- 
 lized us by long delay! I was positively sure that on the 
 seventeenth of January — the last marigold having just 
 faded on its stalk in our garden — that I saw a pussy- 
 willow showing its tail over in the Scheveningen woods. 
 I know the crocuses were up in the last of February and 
 a pink oleander bud made an abortive attempt to blos- 
 som. The climate is not severe in South Holland, nor 
 is it particularly trying. There are no great changes in 
 temperature. The mercury averaged during the months 
 of December, January, February and March about 
 forty. It is the absence of sunshine, the prevalence of 
 the cool mists that make a stay in Holland depressing. 
 The nights are interminable; the days only a few hours 
 long; the gas is lighted as early as three in the afternoon 
 — once we were obliged to light it at half-past two — 
 and the mornings are really gone before there is light 
 
The Knocking at the Gates 131 
 
 enough to accomplish anything. This condition of things 
 it is that makes the sun-loving and sun-wonted American 
 homesick in a strange land. 
 
 After the crocuses came a flurry of snow. We had had 
 but two small storms during the winter, and those caused 
 an outburst of editorial tirade because it lay three inches 
 deep in the principal streets for two days! Then fol- 
 lowed the chill winds that, without being in any sense 
 cold, brought with them a feeling of discomfort. We were 
 glad that Ben Hardon had been prevented from coming 
 to us before May. These winds continued throughout 
 the first part of April; then came the spring, quick with 
 its tender beauty. The rooks were loud in the garden, 
 the ducks lively in the bright waters. The Oude Sche- 
 veningsche Weg was a green mist of young foliage. The 
 swans in the Vyver plumed themselves in sunshine — at 
 last! It behooved us to leave our nest, now that the birds 
 were building theirs, and take to the water like the ducks. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE NEW PILGRIM FATHERS 
 
 Of course we set sail from Delfshaven, and, natu- 
 rally, we called ourselves The New Pilgrim Fathers. At 
 first James objected. 
 
 "But there isn't a father among us, Persis! — and 
 won't be, even when Ben and the Captain join us. It's 
 a misnomer, and I, for one, don't like to sail under 
 false colors in a foreign country." 
 
 "I'm not asking you to sail under false colors, James. 
 I'm going to fly — that's the word, isn't it ? — the Stars 
 and Stripes from my masthead and the Netherlands' 
 colors at the prow." 
 
 "Stern, you mean." 
 
 "Well, what's the difference, bow, or prow, or stern, 
 so long as they fly ? And as for calling ourselves after 
 the Fathers, I don't see why it isn't just as logical as to 
 christen our house The Stork's Nest, when there isn't a 
 bird of that species to be found on a nest short of the 
 Zoo at Rotterdam." I felt my argument to be con- 
 clusive. 
 
 "Oh, well, if you've set your heart on it, I don't mind! 
 but doesn't it sound rather sentimentally forced?" 
 
 "Sentimental? Now, James Moulton, where is your 
 
 132 
 
The New Pilgrim Fathers 133 
 
 idealism ? If you would only apply it in the right place! 
 Haven't you told me a dozen times in the last fifteen 
 years that life, to be interesting, whether on land or sea, 
 must have its sentimental factor ? Haven't you told me 
 time and again that we must relapse now and then into 
 sentiment pure and simple in order that we may be 
 strengthened to meet prosaic fact ?" 
 
 "M — m; well, perhaps I have said so under stress 
 of weather; but I never intended my sentiments to 
 come back at me like boomerangs just because the wife 
 of my bosom has decided she is to be a new father." 
 
 "Now, James, I protest." 
 
 "Don't protest, Persis, but put on your things and 
 we'll run down to Rotterdam, select a boat — and sur- 
 prise Ben and the Captain." 
 
 "Oh, James, you're a — " 
 
 "M — m; let me breathe — " 
 
 The Spring had been calling enticingly to us for a 
 week past. The hyacinths were in blossom, the tulips 
 in bud. The thrushes and finches were filling the 
 Scheveningen woods with their spring music. The 
 tree-tops were thickening with reddish brown buds. 
 The young green of willow and lime bordering the canals 
 was reflected in the quiet waters Every owner of a 
 boat was busy with a paint pot freshening his winter- 
 worn pink, or tjalk, or koj into a semblance of the green 
 of eternal youth. It was high time for us to be knock- 
 
134 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 ing at all the Gates of the Netherlands for admittance 
 into the joys of a Dutch spring. 
 
 Rotterdam suffers from a plethora of boats. From 
 the Rhine Haven all along the Maas they overflow 
 into the canals within the city, and offer to the would-be 
 voyager an embarrassment of choice. 
 
 James said I might have it all my own way and he 
 would pay the bills, which was both dutifully masculine 
 and marital. And it was such a delight to have my 
 own way in just this special direction! Nothing and 
 nobody to consult but my own sense of the fitness of 
 things. By "things" I mean boats. But which to 
 choose ? 
 
 There was the pink, the heavy fishing boat of the 
 North Sea. There was the sharp-prowed tjalk, and 
 the cumbersome kof, the barge of the canals. There 
 was the motor boat, new, trim, a concession to progress. 
 Finally I chose one — with James' approval, for I 
 dared not take the whole responsibiHty — that James 
 called a hybrid: a cross between the various crafts. It 
 was provided with steam-motor power, but carried a 
 large sail. We could, in fact, sail, punt, steam or be 
 towed, according to our pleasure and the exigencies of 
 wind and tide, deep waters or shallow. 
 
 That boat was the joy of my heart and the pride of my 
 eyes. It was painted bright apple-green like thousands of 
 its fellows. A broad white band defined the gunwale. 
 It had a large cabin, white within and without, shining 
 
The New Pilgrim Fathers 135 
 
 with brass, and ornamented with several dozen of old 
 purple-blue and white saucers and plates, of a quality 
 like our great-grandmothers' willow-tree bowls. Its 
 little square windows had the regulation white lace 
 curtains, and on the broad ledges were pots of flowering 
 cyclamen and primroses. It was high from the water, 
 broad of stern and sharp of prow. The great sail was 
 a fine old burnt-sienna brown in color — iron-rust red 
 in the sunset Hght. There was a cubby-hole for a cook- 
 stove and utensils forward, besides two bunks below; 
 and aft there was a space for an awning and deck chairs. 
 Included in the boat's fixtures were the owner, his 
 wife and uncle, genuine Zeelanders, all three. The 
 wife was to be our general "help"; the man and his 
 uncle our crew. 
 
 We gave the woman three days to make ready for 
 us, sent on board some comfortable furniture hired at 
 Rotterdam, and ordered the man to proceed, when all 
 was ready, to Delfshaven. 
 
 On the day of our departure James and I explored 
 that ancient town. As we made our way up the old 
 Haven Street we harked back in thought nearly three 
 hundred years to a time when the real pilgrims trod that 
 same way — many, I doubt not, with heavy hearts, — 
 when they listened to those last, comforting words of 
 their preacher, John Robinson, when they set foot on 
 the Speedwell's deck and went forth into the Unknown 
 — fathers and mothers and little children, unaware of 
 
136 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 the mighty nation that in due time, which proved to be 
 God's time, should arise to do them honor, so few, so 
 poor, so weak! 
 
 As we stood before the old church that leans to the 
 street by the inner waters of the haven, and looked 
 down into the haven itself, so filled with hull and mast 
 and sail that little of the water was visible, I heard 
 James quoting softly under his breath that lovely verse 
 from Lanier's "Psalm of the West," beginning: 
 
 "'Mayflower piteous heariease petal — "' 
 
 We did not call our nondescript craft The Mayflower, 
 in deference to the possible sensitiveness of certain New 
 England societies, nor The Speedwell, because, as James 
 said, that special ship belied her name and "never got 
 there." We preferred to honor the United Provinces 
 of the Netherlands and christen it The Broomstick, in 
 appreciative recognition of the services of that famous 
 Admiral Martin Tromp, who proposed to sweep Hol- 
 land's enemies from the seas, and mightily accomplished 
 his fell purpose. It was a thoroughly Dutch broom 
 that we purchased at Rotterdam and affixed to our 
 mast. Not by any possibility was it to be mistaken 
 for one of American manufacture. We were forced to 
 admit, unpatriotic as it may sound, that, as it flaunted 
 boldly, I should say stood nailed rigidly to the mast 
 beneath our flag, it was decidedly more picturesque in 
 
THE EAST GATE OF DELFT 
 From an Old Plate 
 
'A 
 
 
The New Pilgrim Fathers 137 
 
 appearance than the carpet-sweepers indigenous in the 
 United States. 
 
 Thus, being ready for our Odyssey in Dutch waters, 
 we sailed from Delfshaven on a bright April morning in 
 all the glory of our green paint and burnt-sienna sail, 
 and made a slow untroubled passage along the busy 
 Schie to Delft. 
 
 About four in the afternoon, beneath radiant sun- 
 shine, we drew near to this most Dutch of Dutch towns, 
 and, passing through the wide swing bridge, moored in 
 the Singel Gracht hard by the famous East Gate. To 
 approach Delft in the afternoon sunlight, to pass through 
 the East, or St. Catherine's Gate, and wander along 
 the Oosteinde till one comes upon the dark apse of the 
 New Church, to pass within its shadows only to emerge 
 abruptly into the sunny open of the market-place, is to 
 relive the century of William of Orange. 
 
 The market-place is backed by the Stadhuis, and 
 dominated by the New Church tower that springs, 
 arrow-like, straight from the pavement nearly four hun- 
 dred feet into the blue. To see it as we saw it that 
 day lively with crowds of old and young, filled with 
 white booths piled high with blue earthenware, wooden 
 shoes, and every necessary article in the Dutch peasant's 
 domestic economy, to wander farther to the Butter 
 Bridge and, standing there, look down the vista of the 
 Oude Delft canal to the ponderous square tower of the 
 Old Church, leaning Hke a northern Pisan Campanile 
 
138 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 to its mirrored reflection in the rippleless blue waters, 
 is to understand, at last, whence Vermeer of Delft drew 
 his inspiration for his famous painting in the Maurit- 
 shuis at The Hague. It is to understand, also, how any 
 one who has once come under the spell of the Nether- 
 lands' intimate life by entering into it through the 
 arched way of the East Gate of Delft can never cast it 
 off, be the environment thereafter as sordid and prosaic 
 as it may. 
 
 Afterwards, as the shadows were lengthening, we 
 stood in the staircase within the Prinzenhof, just opposite 
 the tower of the Old Church, and relived in imagination 
 that hour in which the pride, the hope, the support of 
 the United Provinces fell in the person of her great 
 leader, William of Orange-Nassau. It was all so bare, 
 so chill within those white walls, that, to the inner eye, the 
 immortal struggle for Dutch independence seemed in such 
 surroundings to take on its true complexion: the livid 
 hue of an eighty years' martyrdom. 
 
 Chill, too, and dreary, robbed of the grandeur of 
 solemnity by wooden enclosures and partitions that 
 obstruct the view, the interior of the New Church — 
 old church of St. Ursula and mausoleum of the House 
 of Orange — seems unworthy of its occupants. Within, 
 only the marvellous angel of victory by William the 
 Silent's tomb seems in keeping symbolically with that 
 triumphant life. Without, only the towering spire, 
 that carries the eye upwards and ever upwards along 
 
GENUINE OLD DELFT 
 OUDE KERK AND OUDE DELFT CANAL 
 
The New Pilgrim Fathers 139 
 
 its leaching height, symbolizes fittingly the supreme 
 personal faith of that Prince to whom the Netherlands 
 owes its national life. 
 
 It was a positive relief to go out into the soft April 
 twilight; to listen to the thrushes mingling their whistling 
 song with the notes of the tinkling carillon in the New 
 Church spire as they dropped streetwards in the dusk; 
 to walk along the Oude Delft under the budding limes, 
 and linger by the Wynhaven until the last bit of daylight 
 faded from the darkening gables of the ancient Province 
 House of all Delfland, and the red, azure, and gold of 
 the various arms set thick on its gray facade, gave forth 
 no single gleam of their rich coloring. 
 
 The contrasting life of the crowded water ways of the 
 Maas and the Schie, which we left behind us, and that 
 of the quiet, almost deserted canal that leads from The 
 Hague to Leyden is so marked that, upon entering it 
 on our way to the home of the Pilgrims, we had, as it 
 were, to tune ourselves anew to our environment. 
 
 Our great sail was set, and slowly — for there was 
 little breeze, and what need had we to hasten ? — we 
 fared along the still waters and watched the coming of 
 the spring. There was little talk between us that day, 
 but the long silences were eloquent. Speech seemed 
 almost a desecration in the inarticulate calm of the 
 innumerable meadows about us, of the bright still waters 
 beneath us, and the infinite blue depths above us. To 
 the north, south, east, and west stretched miles of green 
 
140 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 pastures banded with silver. Now and then we passed 
 a farmhouse, its red pyramidal roof, its conical thatched 
 ricks huddled behind a group of elms and limes that 
 showed their still meagrely graced anatomy clearly 
 defined against the blue sky, which seemed to canopy 
 the humble dwellings of man and beast so low it arched 
 above them. At long intervals a sleek-thatched wind- 
 mill's moving arms heightened by their rotating shadows 
 on the grass the vivid young green of the spring. Here 
 and there a man was turning over the earth with a primi- 
 tive plough, a woman was planting, another was beating 
 her linen white in a small side canal. 
 
 All the homely, patient toil of the earth was visible 
 to us that day, as well as the workings of an ever-mirac- 
 ulous natural life. The ewes, big with young, lay upon 
 the meadows quietly biding their time. Flocks of lambs 
 were wonting themselves awkwardly to the use of legs. 
 Magnificent Holsteins made patches of black and white 
 upon the pastures, and everjrwhere lay great garnered 
 heaps of willow shoots which were to be utilized for 
 dyke-thatching and wattle-work of all kinds — wind- 
 breaks, sand-breaks, fish creels and market baskets. 
 
 It was the Holland Without of Today, the Holland of 
 Mauve and Maris, as Delft, in its chief characteristics, is 
 still Jan Vermeer's Delft of near three hundred years 
 ago. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE CITY OF THE CROSSED KEYS 
 
 De Amicis, writing his classic on Holland a generation 
 since, says: "Leyden, the antique Athens of the North, 
 ... is one of those cities which make you thoughtful 
 upon first entering them, and are remembered for a long 
 time afterwards with a certain impression of sadness. 
 I had hardly arrived when the chill of a dead city seemed 
 to fall upon me. ... In the smaller streets you walk 
 upon long tracts of grass, between houses with closed 
 doors and windows, in a silence as profound as that of 
 those fabled cities where all the inhabitants are sunk in 
 a supernatural sleep." 
 
 We of another generation found it otherwise: gay, 
 bright with clear-flowing waters, its streets filled with a 
 varied, moving life, and the Old Rhine, over whose 
 death in its decrepitude at Leyden and Katwyk De 
 Amicis mourns throughout a whole doleful page, every- 
 where in evidence as the busiest, most helpful and still 
 most picturesque of rivers. Decidedly, in Leyden it is 
 a case of old wine in new bottles — and good Rhine 
 wine at that. 
 
 What life the river, even canalized as it is, gives to the 
 town! Howit individualizes it! What would the northern 
 
 141 
 
142 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 Athens be without its Rhine that, in its old age, has 
 grown in grace of manner and courteously shows a stranger 
 the way at every turn ? How honored it is with as many 
 baptismal names as a prince of blood royal ! It is sociable 
 and democratic as well. Make a companion of it for 
 half a day, as we did, and experience how it will hedge 
 you in with a high Rhine dyke on the one hand and a low 
 Rhine dyke on the other; how it will delight you as the 
 Old Rhine entering the city hard by the ancient Zyl Gate, 
 and its blue eye remind you — just there as you lean upon 
 the bridge to watch the river craft as they pass below you 
 — that the force of its impetuous youth at SchafFhausen 
 and its virile manhood beneath the shadow of Ehren- 
 breitstein are still with it. True, its strength is no longer 
 concentrated; it is diffused throughout the length and 
 breadth of the Netherlands as arterial blood to enrich 
 and to strengthen. 
 
 It will entice you across the Rhine Bridge, and along 
 the length of the Rhineburger Singel back to the Zyl 
 Gate, whence it will show you the vivacious Rhine Haven. 
 You come, at last, to feel that you are at the mercy of 
 the jesting Rhine that masquerades under a half-dozen 
 aliases in the Low Countries; yet you cannot resent its 
 surprises. Follow the Old Rhine. It lures you city- 
 wards to the Fish Bridge. There you find the small 
 lakelike expanse of the Still Rhine that holds you en- 
 chanted in the very heart of ancient Leyden and all its 
 neighboring charm of Stadhuis, Castle, Weigh House, 
 
The City of the Crossed Keys 143 
 
 Butter Market and St. Peter's Church. If these do not 
 hold you too long, the low colonnades of the Korenbeurs, or 
 Corn Exchange, will show you a fine curve of the New 
 Rhine that leads you on to the Rhine Quay, where, for 
 a time, the river bids you farewell. 
 
 And well we fared! First to theStadhuis which shows 
 the touch of Lieven de Key, the architect stone mason 
 of Haarlem whose hand graced every stone it touched. 
 He is the Inigo Jones of the Netherlands. 
 
 "I'd like to make Leyden's arms the world's!" James 
 exclaimed, as we lingered in the tapestried rooms. 
 
 "Why Leyden's, especially?" 
 
 "Because those two crossed keys on the old Zyl Gate 
 are significant of so much. To me, one of them stands 
 for the unlocking to the world of that seventeenth cen- 
 tury of Dutch art that was made possible by those who 
 possessed the key — Rembrandt van Ryn, Gerard Dou; 
 Metsu, Mieris and Jan Steen, all of them Leyden's 
 sons. The other opened the door of that wonderful 
 historic sixteenth century that stands among its fellows 
 as the apotheosis of bravery, national, civic, personal — 
 the bravery of the men, women, and little children of the 
 Netherlands. But it's too fine to waste a word on." 
 Therewith he grew clamlike, as his way is when he feels 
 deeply. 
 
 I left him with his thoughts and walked again through 
 the ancient suite of rooms unequalled, I believe, in Europe 
 for the beauty of their wall-tapestries. They are a feast 
 
144 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 for the eye, these cool blue-greens — Holland's own 
 harmony of neutral tints — in the deep woodland vistas 
 that are seen in the rare old pieces of Delft's warp and woof. 
 The contrasting golden lights in the ancient French 
 Gobelins on one wall seem a forecast of that transfused 
 atmospheric glory of the Barbizon School of painting. 
 
 Afterwards we climbed to the narrow encircling 
 balcony above the belfry of the Stadhuis tower, and looked 
 and looked, but could not look our fill. Beneath us rose 
 in irregular collocation Leyden's mass of huddling, 
 red-tiled roofs, and in and out among them wound the 
 dark blue ribbons of its water ways; the whole was set 
 in the young green of springing grass lands. Above us 
 the delicate, gray broach-spire towered to the wide- 
 spreading cool grays of April's changing skies. To the 
 south, clear and dark against the horizon, the forest of 
 The Hague showed the rounded crowns of its tree-tops 
 thickening into foliage. To the left the square mass of 
 the Old Church tower and the aspiring shaft of the New 
 Church at Delft were silhouetted against the smoke-haze 
 that, dim in the farthermost distance, gave us a blurred 
 impression of Rotterdam. 
 
 Some pigeons hovering about the spire and flying low 
 over the roofs beneath us completed the illusion : we 
 were reliving with The Burgomaster's Wife the story of 
 Leyden's travail of siege in that fateful 1574, as only 
 Georg Ebers has been able to tell it. 
 
OLD ZTL GATE 
 LETDEN 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 AN EX-VOTO OFFERING 
 
 We lingered in Leyden, for the city charmed us, and 
 there was something of interest for every day and hour. 
 We did exactly as we chose, and, I'm quite sure, we gen- 
 erally chose to do what no one else has ever cared to do. 
 
 We leaned by the hour on the guards of the swing 
 bridge hard by the old Zyl Gate which, as James said, is 
 decidedly "off its base." It is hunched and settled, and, 
 seemingly, shrunken with age. We never tired of watch- 
 ing the various craft — yellow-ochre sailed, brown, white, 
 burnt-sienna, and black sailed — that, laden with turf, 
 lumber, willow-withes and country produce of all kinds, 
 enter from the Old Rhine by the Zyl Gate into the ample 
 Rhine Haven. 
 
 The man poles his boat, the woman steers, and the 
 inevitable dog keeps up his running accompaniment 
 from one to the other. The bridge tender drops some- 
 thing on the end of a long fish-line to the woman as she 
 passes beneath him. It is a little wooden shoe such as 
 the peasant children wear. In the toe is tucked a slip 
 of paper which the woman extracts, and for it she sub- 
 stitutes the two or four cents toll according to the craft. 
 One may see the drop of this fish-Hne with its small 
 
 10 145 
 
146 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 wooden shoe for bait whenever a bridge is opened for a 
 passing boat. 
 
 We walked up one street, or singel, or gracht as it chanced, 
 and down another, aimless, but blissfully content just to 
 walk, to enjoy, to revel in the simple nothings which can 
 never be found in any earthly guidebook, but which 
 make for the joys of the true traveller: the clatter of a 
 multitude of wooden shoes on the pavements; the setting 
 sun suddenly eclipsed before one's very face and eyes 
 by a huge brown sail hobnobbing with one's elbow; 
 that inexplicably entrancing twilight that luminously 
 enhances all which it should enshroud until every vista, 
 whether of land or water, looks to be a long, long road 
 to Paradise. 
 
 We blundered in this most irregular fashion into all 
 sorts of delightful experiences, and our "finds" were 
 legion. Fancy discovering a real "Long Paradise 
 Street" in the crowded poorer section of the little city! 
 And in the near neighborhood, we ran down a quarry 
 of artistic charm in a kind of cul-de-sac closed by an 
 ancient gateway. Fancy ringing at the mysterious 
 portal and having it open to admit you into a very Court 
 of Peace — the yoost Frans van Lindenspoort Hofje! 
 
 These hofjes are an institution peculiar to the Nether- 
 lands, and to understand the reason of their endowment 
 it is necessary to describe them. The Dutch care well 
 for their poor, but they do something finer: they enable 
 those of restricted means to live with "dignified frugality" 
 
An Ex-Voto Offering 147 
 
 in the independence and freedom of their own firesides. 
 What matter if the "fireside" be a pleasant fiction, and 
 consist of a tiny grate and one blinking piece of turf or 
 a briquette ? It is his own. They are well worth de- 
 scription as well as study, for the principle underlying 
 the endowments for these hofjes shows us one of the 
 rugged foundation stones of Dutch independence, graced, 
 where one least expects it, with ideality. 
 
 Picture within this "special" gate of the Van Linden- 
 spoort Hofje a rectangular court set with grass, shrubs 
 and a tree or two, bordered with spring flowers and laid 
 about with a narrow paved walk. A blind wall pierced 
 by the single entrance gate, and white with the bloom of 
 a pear tree trained against it, forms one end. Two rows 
 of tiny brick houses a story and a half high, one window 
 and a door wide, form the sides. The other end is also 
 a blind wall, provided with a pent roof. This covered 
 space is furnished with table, benches and chairs, and 
 forms an afternoon-coffee and smoking-room for the 
 inmates of the hofje. The regents' rules, regulating hours 
 of entrance, closing, and limiting the stay of hofje guests, 
 are hung on the wall. The open front of this invitingly 
 cool out-of-doors coffee-room is curtained with masses of 
 ivy. 
 
 Such friends as we made in this fascinating Joost 
 Frans van Lindenspoort Hofje that, long generations 
 since, one of God's own noblemen endowed for hus- 
 bands and wives honestly poor and honestly proud! 
 
148 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 There was the gate-keeper, hospitable, and rejoicing in 
 his trim Httle garden and his own bird-cage of a house, 
 his home for the past fifteen years. There was his comely 
 wife of seventy-seven, with never a gray streak in her 
 shining dark hair, and only one wise wrinkle across her 
 forehead to inform a close observer that she had had 
 experience of life. There was the lately widowed 
 Vrouw A, with manners becoming a duchess, who cor- 
 dially invited us into her immaculate snuggery, and 
 showed us the whole house, which, like the others, con- 
 sists of a small passageway, one tiny living-room, an 
 infinitesimal kitchen — when she stepped into it the door 
 could not possibly be shut — one bedroom above, and 
 an apology for a garret. The prices paid for the houses 
 vary in the different hofjes. Widow A's cost her husband 
 seven hundred gulden, a matter of two hundred and 
 ninety dollars, some twelve years ago. This sum is 
 equivalent to a life-lease for both man and wife. It is 
 hers unto the end — then another fortunate couple, 
 having arrived at the age limit of sixty, will occupy her 
 peaceful dwelling in this Httle oasis on life's "Western 
 Slope." 
 
 These hofjes are in no sense a charity. They are a 
 graceful recognition on the part of the men who endow 
 them of the two great basal principles upon which the 
 superstructure of the happiness of the whole human race 
 has been and will continue to be raised; one is altruistic 
 — I am my brother's keeper — in its most practical in- 
 
An Ex-Voto Offering 149 
 
 terpretation; the other individuaHstic, in that it accords 
 to each man independence with economy, ease with 
 frugality, and acknowledges the unit of the family. The 
 honses are furnished by the owners always cosily and 
 comfortably, sometimes richly. Many an heirloom in 
 old mahogany or fine porcelain gave me an envious pang. 
 With their Lares and Penates about them these old people 
 provide for their own tables, receive members of their 
 families and their friends as guests, smoke their pipes in 
 peace, and drink their coffee to the gossipy accompani- 
 ment of wifely tongues and the click of knitting needles 
 in busy fingers. It was a joy to see their joy in the fact 
 that they had visitors from America. "From America! 
 From America!" our old gate-keeper shouted in his 
 excitement, and more than one head appeared at the 
 tiny windows in response to the unwonted cry. 
 
 "From America, thank God!" said James, reverently. 
 With one hand he tucked my arm through his and, 
 despite the fact of our having been married fifteen years, 
 squeezed it hard in the presence of our hofje friends; 
 with the other he shook the old gate-keeper's hand so 
 substantially that I feel sure the Joost Frans van Linden- 
 spoort Hofje s open-air coffee-room was redolent of Java, 
 tobacco, and honey-cakes for a month afterwards. 
 
 "Persis, do you know what I'll do if I get the award 
 for the plans of the new Peace Conference Palace at The 
 Hague ?" 
 
150 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 "What, James?" 
 
 "I'll endow an American Persis and James Moulton 
 of Boston Hofje for indigent husbands and wives; and 
 when you and I are old, Persis, we'll — " 
 
 "What, James ?" 
 
 I got no verbal answer, but I knew: we would gladly 
 seek in our old age a refuge in just such a dear little 
 Court of Peace, and be happy, oh, so happy! — providing 
 only that we might be together. 
 
 James hummed "John Anderson my jo, John," all the 
 way to our modest Cafe' de Harmonte in the Breestraat, 
 where we took our dinner. I smiled to hear him, for I 
 knew his heart was still within the four walls of Joost 
 van Lindens poort's Hofje. 
 
 Afterwards we took our way through intricate side 
 streets, across a courtyard, beneath an archway guarded 
 by a rampant stone lion of the Netherlands, and climbed 
 the winding path to the eminence that is crowned by De 
 Burcht, a thousand-year-old remnant of a supposed for- 
 tress, and, standing there beneath one of its great round 
 arches, we watched the sun set over the red roofs of 
 Leyden, home of our Pilgrim ancestors! Later on, in 
 the long twilight, we made our own daily pilgrimage to 
 what should be every true New Englander's Mecca: 
 noble St. Peter's Church in Clock Lane, where John 
 Robinson lies buried. 
 
 Yes, our Mecca. Scrooby, Leyden, Delfshaven, Plym- 
 outh, Massachusetts Bay — every one is a name for all 
 
An Ex-Voto Offering isi 
 
 born on New England's soil or who have New England's 
 blood in their veins to conjure with; names that should 
 stir both young blood and old to new endeavor, that 
 should call to mind the supreme faith of those Few whom 
 Lanier with deep poetical vision names : 
 
 'Godly hearts that. Gratis of gold. 
 Still the blood of Faith do hold." 
 
 The wonder is that the small bare chapel, beneath the 
 pavement of which John Robinson lies in an unmarked 
 grave, is not filled with offerings from across the sea. 
 The wonder increases as we linger in the great church 
 of St. Peter's, that no monument erected by New Eng- 
 land's sons stands within it as an ex-voto offering to the 
 brave heart that spoke courage to the Few, and sent them 
 forth, heartened, to tread the winepress alone — and for 
 us — across the sea. 
 
 "Oh, James!" I exclaimed, "I wish I might stir my 
 own people to a realization of what they owe to Leyden 
 and John Robinson! Oh, why, with the patriotic senti- 
 ment that prompts the formation of New England 
 Societies and Mayflower Dittos and Colonial Dames 
 and Revolutionary Sons and Daughters, can't there be 
 enough recognition of the spiritual import of that migra- 
 tion to fill this poor bare stone chapel with lovely memorial 
 windows and some masterpiece in stone ? " 
 
 James smiled upon me indulgently. '"Why don't you 
 
152 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 speak for yourself,' Persis, when you get home ? I'll 
 wager not a son of New England would resist such per- 
 suasive eloquence." 
 
 "/ will," I said, firmly, much to his delight; but I 
 quaked inwardly for, of course, James, being mine, over- 
 estimates my power with other men. However, I knew 
 he wasn't making fun of me, so I took out of my bag my 
 own little ex-voto offering — a surprise to James — in 
 the shape of a spray of New England pine and a poor bit 
 of faded arbutus vine, and laid them on the pavement of 
 the chapel. 
 
 " I agree with you, Persis," said James after a moment's 
 silence in which he looked his surprise; "there should be 
 a noble monument to mark the very spot; this sort of 
 thing is too indefinite, too impersonal." 
 
 "That's just the way I feel; and I'd put on one face 
 of the monument that verse of Lanier's which is as appli- 
 cable to the Netherlands as to the Pilgrim Fathers and 
 to us." 
 
 "I know it!" he exclaimed, promptly, and quoted the 
 very lines: 
 
 "Freedom lives, and Right shall stand ; 
 Blood of Faith IS in the land." 
 
 "Yes," I cried delighted, "and your being able to 
 quote it is a positive proof of the oneness of our souls, 
 James! although our opinions do differ more or less." 
 
An Ex-Voto Offering 153 
 
 James laughed. "Rather more than less, met?" — 
 James can be irritating even in his best moods sometimes. 
 — " But you've made a fine distinction, little mother. 
 By the way, you've kept mighty close about these bits 
 of the real New England; — where and how did you get 
 them ? " 
 
 "From Lou." 
 
 "Lou?" 
 
 "Yes; and, oh, James, don't, I beg of you, ask me 
 anything more about it now. I'm sure thereby will 
 hang a future tale, and I don't dare to break the news 
 to you, or contemplate the consequences." 
 
 "Oh, go ahead and out with it; you'll feel better." 
 
 "I really can't tell you now, James; wait till we're 
 on The Broomstick again." With that he had to be 
 satisfied. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 FIELDS ELYSIAN 
 
 For one day, with Leyden still as our base, we deserted 
 The Broomstick and took the early morning train to 
 Haarlem. The hyacinth fields were in the height of 
 their blossoming and the tulips beginning to open. We 
 wanted to verify the illustrated postal cards. We feared 
 they were colored caricatures of the reality. 
 
 There is in the Mauritshuis at The Hague a notable 
 landscape by Jacob van Ruisdael: a view of Haarlem 
 taken from the dunes at Overveen. One can obtain 
 much the same view from the train as it approaches the 
 city, with an overlook of the famous flower fields which 
 are miles in extent. 
 
 The early train was our choice, for at that hour, six 
 or seven, light mists hang above the Low Lands and, 
 without obscuring the view, enhance all natural beauty 
 and soften the hard outlines of the city's architecture. 
 That short ride was through Elysian Fields. By means 
 of it we caught their whole effect and were spared details. 
 Conceive of a rainbow trailing its earth-touching ends 
 for miles and miles over the face of the country between 
 Leyden and Haarlem. Conceive of the perfumes of 
 Araby following in its wake! The whole surrounding 
 
 154 
 
Fields Elysian 155 
 
 air was heavy with fragrance. The mists rose and fell 
 over the rainbow-tinted earth, and the train sped on 
 through an unreality of exquisitely harmonious coloring, 
 until we saw the great church of St. Bavon rising like a 
 grand ark of the covenant above the morning mists, 
 and heard the guard call, "Haarlem." We descended, 
 slightly dazed. 
 
 "Have you found the pot of gold?" were James' first 
 words as we walked up the platform. 
 
 "I'm not sure, but I know I have come as near to 
 finding it as I ever can." 
 
 "Same here," he said, emphatically. Then we took 
 the electric tram to Bloemendaal and found that Huysum 
 and Rachel Ruysch, with proverbial Dutch faithfulness, 
 have painted their wonderful flower pieces to the life. 
 We saw a field of early rose-pink and white tulips in 
 bloom in which a single chalice would measure seven 
 inches in diameter. We saw acres upon acres of hya- 
 cinths that showed an exquisite gradation of purple, 
 lavender, pink, and white, and every single bell was the 
 size of a small tuberose. 
 
 We returned to The Little Hague, as James calls 
 Haarlem, and joyfully wasted our time until near 
 sunset. We found out the winkel, or little shop, 
 where they sell the famous Haarlem specialty in pastry, 
 the halletjes: round thin cakes that have been made 
 from the same recipe for the past three hundred 
 years. And in that winkel we munched their brown 
 
156 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 crispness with entire satisfaction and inner content. 
 We ran into the Stadhuis just for the sake of 
 shaking hands again with our delightful Frans Hals 
 and all his jovial company of officers. We hob- 
 nobbed especially with the Colonel of the Archers of St. 
 Adrian and the fine Haarlem Burgomaster, and, in 
 spirit, drank his health who looks out from the canvas 
 with a raised antique glass in his hand, a glass in which 
 the red wine — is wine, very blood of the grape. I have 
 seen no such painting elsewhere; even Rembrandt has 
 not excelled it. We took a farewell look at the ancient 
 Meat House that stands half in the shadow of the Great 
 Church, and from an obscure corner in the Great Market 
 viewed the astounding high-shouldered bulk of St. 
 Bavon's transept. 
 
 We followed the serpentine Spaarne in its windings 
 through the city, and when the shadows began to lengthen 
 we preempted the two seats on the front platform of 
 the steam-tram, and joggled, with innumerable stops, 
 for more than two hours through and around and into 
 and pretty nearly over every small town and hamlet 
 between Haarlem and Leyden; through Heemsted, and 
 Hillegom, through lovely Lisse, past half the back doors 
 of Sassenheim to the front door of the Red Lion at Oegs- 
 geest. All this journey was through the heart of the 
 flower country. 
 
 It is a cheek-by-jowl method of travel, and, until one 
 becomes wonted to it, one feels as if he were an intruder, 
 
ST. BAVON AND MEAT MARKET 
 HAARLEM 
 
lb /\ 
 
 ri iJ— r«I rfT.1 -. I 7 Ha ^j» wi^ 
 
 iiif.T^?'^! >li 
 
 
Fields Elysian 157 
 
 and experiences a strong desire to apologize for stopping 
 within a foot of the inhabitants' windows and overlook- 
 ing their intimate family life. It is an embarrassment 
 to a modest soul to find himself being run, with a mighty 
 clanging of bells, into a Dutchman's front dooryard 
 and up to the very door before which the family are 
 taking their afternoon coffee; but I confess to a better 
 understanding of Dutch village life on account of this 
 peculiar manner of travelling. 
 
 Like everything else it has its compensations: a soft 
 breeze from the sea blows freshly into your face; the 
 rotating shadows of a mill's great sails fall upon you as 
 the tram halts beneath its sleek-thatched eaves; the small 
 wooden-shod children make friends with you on the car 
 steps and offer you great bunches of hyacinths strung on 
 strings — a full peck for five cents ! The night air is 
 overpoweringly sweet with the incense shaken from an 
 infinitude of dainty hyacinth bells; a thrush whistles 
 to you from the top of a linden, and every turn of the 
 highway, along which the tram is running, presents 
 you with an unforgettable picture. 
 
 I recall at Hillegom an ivy-mantled gable by the side 
 of a canal. I saw it at sunset across a wide foreground 
 of early pink, and white, and yellow tulips. Some white 
 doves were fluttering about the tiny pent-roofed dove- 
 cote affixed to the house gable and half-hidden by the 
 draping ivy. 
 
 All about the fields and by the side of the canals lay 
 
158 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 great masses of gathered hyacinths, as large as small 
 haystacks: blotches of pink and purple against the 
 green. They are cut early to strengthen the plant and 
 insure good flowering for the marketed bulbs. This 
 flower refuse the Dutch utilize as dressing for the fields. 
 
 As the sun sank lower its crimson light was reflected 
 here and there along the narrow canals that intersect 
 the fields, so banding them with brilliant color. Across 
 many acres of pale blue hyacinths a group of barns and 
 hayricks thatched with warm browns stood out against 
 the level western light. 
 
 As the sun dipped to the horizon we passed the clear 
 blue waters of a canal narrowing in perspective to the west. 
 In the foreground was an old boat moored beside a field 
 of white hyacinths. It was loaded above the gunwale 
 with blood-red tulips. In the background a blood-red 
 sun was sinking into the evening mists that were gathering 
 beyond the dunes. 
 
 Such are a few of the aquarelles we hang upon the walls 
 of memory. They serve to recall those illusive Elysian 
 Fields. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE HEART OF HOLLAND 
 
 Of Holland, not of the Netherlands. 
 
 When the Dutch speak of Holland they signify the 
 two contiguous provinces of North and South Holland 
 that lie along the North Sea coast in the west of the 
 Netherlands. When they speak of their country of the 
 Netherlands, they include both North and South Holland 
 together with the southern provinces of Zeeland (with 
 Zeeland-Flanders), North Brabant and Limburg, the 
 central provinces of Utrecht and Gelderland, and the 
 northeastern provinces of Overyssel, Drenthe, Friesland, 
 and Groningen — eleven in all. Hence it is a misnomer 
 to speak of the United Provinces of the Netherlands as 
 Holland. It is equivalent to calling New England the 
 United States. It is wise to bear this in mind when 
 travelling through the country, also that the difference 
 in speech is that of Yorkshire and Devon, or of Missis- 
 sippi and Vermont. 
 
 Place a pencil point on Leyden and draw a diagonal 
 straight across country to Amsterdam. Weave about 
 this diagonal in its entire length an intricate scrollwork 
 that shall represent the continuously deflected line of 
 water ways, lakes, canals, river, through which The 
 
 159 
 
160 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 Broomstick found its way. There you have an outHne 
 of the midlands of Holland, and the scrollwork of 
 water ways is a hem of blue embroidery that borders in 
 its entire length the famous drained Lake of Haarlem. 
 This is now, as every one knows, a miles-wide stretch 
 of magnificent farm lands, or polders, circumvallated by 
 high dykes for protection against the devastating waters. 
 This country is one of the two marvellous lake-sections 
 of the Netherlands. 
 
 "I never had much respect for the old Rhine when I 
 was a boy," said James, as we leaned on the taffrail 
 watching the distance increase between us and the 
 ancient Zyl Gate. "Caesar prejudiced me. He gave 
 me to understand that the old river 'petered out' in 
 marshes; but I've changed my opinion since seeing it 
 here in Leyden, and my respect is boundless." 
 
 "Don't quarrel with Caesar, James, after two thou- 
 sand years; it isn't fair. Besides, if he hadn't been 
 here before us we mightn't have been here after him." 
 
 "Well reasoned, seeing that he was a Roman with 
 imperialistic tendencies, and you are an American with 
 anti-ditto. I think I can catch a glimpse of the slender 
 link that binds us at this moment to those times." 
 He pointed to a cubical Dutchman, square as he was 
 thick, who was poling a raft. "I fancy the Batavians 
 poled like that in shallow waters two thousand years 
 ago." 
 
 We leaned to catch a last glimpse of the old Zyl, or 
 
The Heart of Holland 161 
 
 Sluice Gate, bearing the crossed stone keys, Leyden's 
 arms, in its escutcheon, of the lovely Rhine Haven 
 crowded vyith bright-sailed craft, and of the old Rhine 
 filled with barges; then passed the Spaniards' Bridge 
 and steamed into the sluiceway that leads to the lake 
 country. 
 
 Upon entering an arm of the first series of lakes, 
 we raised our sail and remained under canvas the 
 rest of the day — a day never to be forgotten, for 
 during it we voyaged in a new world. Remote from 
 traffic and manufactures, far from railways, steam-trams, 
 motors, automobiles and all the paraphernalia of this 
 unresting age, we sailed and sailed. No ripple could 
 be heard at the prow, no motion felt on the boat. We 
 followed the course of the curving blue reaches into 
 lakes, the unique beauty of which I have no fit words to 
 describe. We left the great tranquil pools of sapphire 
 by narrow straits into inland seas set, apparently, for 
 boundaries were not to be defined in the intricately 
 interwoven expanses of land and water, with gems of 
 islands. We rounded point after point graced with a 
 windmill, a group of dwellings and barns gray-thatched 
 amid the green. A tiny canal beneath an arcade of 
 drooping willows served for a front door path, and a 
 boat was moored where in an ordinary world one would 
 find a garden gate. Now and then a strong-armed 
 peasant girl would row far out upon the shining waters 
 and, lying on her oars, wait the coming of the little 
 
 11 
 
162 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 steamer that keeps this sacred country world in touch 
 with the profane one of modern city Hfe. 
 
 It was May. The fruit trees were in full bloom. 
 The island-meadows were bright with wild flowers, and 
 the soft air that drew across this enchanting land the 
 freshest and sweetest I have ever breathed. A tranquil 
 world of tender blue skies, and lush green pastures set 
 in peaceful waters that faithfully mirrored both earth 
 and sky; a spot that might, in truth, restore one^s soul. 
 
 Kaag on the great Kager Lake has a situation so 
 unique as to defy description. These isolated inland- 
 water towns were a revelation to us both. As we en- 
 tered the Ringvaart, the encircling moat of the drained 
 Lake of Haarlem, with its wall of dyke topped at in- 
 tervals by small dyke-hamlets, we felt ourselves to be 
 once more of earth. It is, at least, possible to speak 
 in intelligible terms of this portion of our journey. We 
 never tired of watching the dyke-life, all open to the day, 
 as we sailed slowly along. This dyke, that borders the 
 great Haarlem polders, is high and narrow, although 
 sufliciently wide to admit of a highway and a row of 
 long, low houses at intervals. It is bare of trees save 
 for the lindens that have been planted in a row directly 
 in front of the houses. These have been cut off at the 
 height of the eaves, and the branches trained from tree 
 to tree and so intertwined as to form a screen, or facade, 
 of living green which extends sometimes for fifty feet. 
 
 The dyke-life is barren in all respects; but it is Life, 
 
The Heart of Holland 163 
 
 and the babies in their tiny white caps and whitewashed 
 klompjes play with the goat and chase him about the 
 Hnden; the small boys and girls bob and jolt along the 
 white bare highway, that marks the dyke, in high-backed 
 carts drawn by the family dogs; the old men clatter 
 about with blue butter-crocks under their arms; the 
 women come to the canal to wash a stone jug, or bowl, 
 or a piece of linen, and the maidens gather at the steamer- 
 landing to watch for the daily boat and, perhaps, the 
 expected letter or package. Love, and Life that is born 
 of Love are here as everywhere, and the human interest 
 seems intensified by the isolation. 
 
 Over the top of the dyke we caught glimpses of the 
 great Haarlem polders. Now and then a barn heaved 
 a thatched shoulder into prominence. Afar we could 
 see something of the roofs of Venneperdorp in the very 
 centre of what was once the shallow Lake of Haarlem. 
 
 As we drew near the white tower of Oude Wetering, 
 and backed and filled into the narrow channel that 
 forms the one village street of this rustic Venice, there 
 was nothing for a while but silence for our wonder and 
 amazement. Then James broke it: "By George, I 
 wish Ben were here to see!" 
 
 "So do I," I responded, heartily; "the more the better 
 to enjoy what must be seen to be believed." This was 
 a stroke of diplomacy on my part, for I intended it to be 
 an entering wedge in view of my "tale" of which, up to 
 the present time, I had kept him in ignorance. "At 
 
164 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 any rate the Captain will meet us at Amsterdam for 
 a day." 
 
 "Yes," James answered rather ruefully, "but he is a 
 Dutchman and knows it all. I want more American 
 eyes to see this." 
 
 "Oh, we shall have enough in time," I replied, hope- 
 fully, and turned the subject. Little did James know 
 the courage it took to speak this conviction which was 
 based on knowledge! 
 
 Oude Wetering is one of those curious inland-water 
 villages that, I must repeat, defy description. As James 
 said, "It is Dutch marrow." The main street is the 
 narrow strait that connects the Ringvaart with the 
 extensive Braassemer Water which lies behind the village. 
 On each side of the water way there extends along the 
 dykes a row of low substantial brick houses, the curious 
 architecture hidden here and there by a trained linden. 
 The white tower at the entrance of the strait dominates 
 the whole. Beyond the houses one sees the shining 
 expanse of Braassemer. A little rustic Venice — this is 
 Oude Wetering, with life all along its one water way, and 
 pretty boats sailing "wing and wing," back and forth 
 before its quaint dwellings and storehouses. We were 
 loath to leave it. 
 
 Kaag, Oude Wetering, Aalsmeer, these three form the 
 unique village trinity in the heart of Holland, and as 
 the children say, so say we: The last is the best of all 
 the rest. 
 
The Heart of Holland 165 
 
 Aalsmeer lies more than half-way between Leyden and 
 Amsterdam. It is a collection of floating gardens — all 
 nurseries for the flowers, fruits, and young trees that 
 supply Amsterdam. Its fleet is flower and fruit laden. 
 Its houses are set in the midst of these watery pleasaunces 
 that are filled with bloom and brightness. A garden 
 gate opens upon water-steps and gives a glimpse of the 
 gay contents of hundreds of cold frames uncovered to 
 the soft air and warm sunshine. Labyrinthine water- 
 lanes, overhung by the dehcate green of saplings, lead to 
 back dooryards that are miniature lakes set round 
 with shrubbery. Boats are ever3Avhere in evidence 
 among the green. A white sail forms a moving back- 
 ground for a house and garden. A black skiflF heaped 
 with white Easter lilies rocks gently in The Broomstick' s 
 slow wash beside a green thick-set hedge. Pear and 
 cherry blossoms drift white upon the dark blue waters, 
 and the westering sun slants low along the green lanes 
 and renders the foliage translucent. 
 
 Oh, the floating gardens of Aalsmeer! We would 
 cross the ocean, nor count the cost, just to see their 
 beauty once more; just to inhale the fragrance, to 
 watch the slow drift of the cherry blossoms on the bright 
 waters, just to catch a glimpse of those green glooms 
 and, beneath them, that black skiff, lily-laden, rocking 
 gently in The Broomstick's slow wash. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 HOW WE SAW AMSTERDAM 
 
 But Holland, North and South, is not all ideal, and 
 with so many illusory joys there is plenty of lasting 
 disenchantment. Broek in Waterland, for instance. De 
 Amicis made it such a subject for jest and caricature, 
 that I had a great desire to see for myself and enjoy 
 the fun he has so generously provided. 
 
 On our arrival at Amsterdam, James found a letter 
 from the Captain telling him he would be with us on 
 the afternoon of the following day, and a cablegram 
 from Ben Hardon which announced that young man's 
 intention to be with us a day after the arrival of the 
 next Rotterdam steamer. I made no comments when 
 James read these communications, for the reason that I 
 was revolving certain matters of importance in my 
 mind : I wanted to be alone for a part of a day to think 
 certain things over — by "things" I mean, in this case, 
 not boats but "girls." At least, I call Cousin Lou a 
 girl although she is forty if she is a day. I must add, 
 not to be what James calls "woman-mean," that she 
 doesn't look over thirty-two; Lois, her niece, is twenty, 
 and James' second cousin. They, too, had announced 
 their intention of spending several weeks with me, 
 
 166 
 
How We Saw Amsterdam 167 
 
 having caught my enthusiasm and accepted an invita- 
 tion I had given them in the winter when I did feel a 
 Httle lonely at times, James was so absorbed in his 
 work. I had not as yet imparted this news to James; 
 but I had given several strong hints, hoping and expect- 
 ing he would ask me to unfold my "tale." But he 
 didn't! 
 
 I wanted, moreover, to see Broek in Waterland; and 
 I wanted to go there alone, for I had a woman's sneak- 
 ing joy in the fact that if I were alone I might find some 
 bargains in old brass and silver in a small place remote 
 from vitiating city Abrahams. As James can't abide 
 bargains of any kind, I knew I should have no peace 
 of mind if he were with me; so I told him I wanted to 
 verify some of De Amicis' statements, now that a gen- 
 eration had passed since they were made, and would 
 take the time while he was attending to some special 
 business of his own. 
 
 "By all means, go and verify the statements," he 
 said, with what seemed to me such unnecessary earnest- 
 ness that I could but wonder if he, too, had something 
 up his sleeve. There was a queer, now-what-are-you-up- 
 to look in his gray-blue eyes that made me feel rather 
 mean after all. 
 
 "Don't get yourself lost in Waterland, and be back 
 in time for the Captain at four," he said, as he put me 
 on the ferry for the steam-tram, "for I want to get out 
 of this hole by tomorrow morning." 
 
168 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 This hole! Amsterdam, the Northern Venice; Am- 
 sterdam, the Queen City of the North; Amsterdam, this 
 hole! I knew something had gone wrong, and felt sure 
 it was the environment rubbing him the wrong way 
 after that perfect Yesterday. Nor could I blame him. 
 
 Amsterdam is unkempt, dirty, crowded, rushing, 
 unsightly in spots, smelly, commercial in spirit and 
 mercantile to the very mud of its canals. The elbowing 
 crowds in Kalver Street, the go-as-you-please-life of 
 Warmoes Street, the barren Dam, and Damrak robbed 
 of all picturesqueness since its fiUing-in, the poor new 
 Bourse, a cross between an American railway station 
 and an Italian warehouse, all disenchant one. Its old 
 churches, seen near at hand, are as lacking in dignity 
 as a moth-eaten buffalo robe, an appearance which the 
 brick walls have gained through time and neglect. The 
 old Weigh House, or St. Anthony's Gate, is stranded 
 high and dry in the midst of much city rubbish. This 
 is owing to the fiUing-in of the canal that faced it — a 
 process which is going on in all the principal cities and 
 towns of the Netherlands. It is destined within a few 
 years to rob them of their individuality. The clang and 
 rush of electrics and automobiles, the great deserts of 
 approach to the museums, the lovely Vondel Park 
 backed by docks and the general dumping grounds for 
 the filthy contents of the dredge that, apparently and of 
 necessity, works day and night — all this destroys illusion. 
 The stench from these last is comparable to that of the 
 
AMSTERDAM 
 
'0^^^^yMS^'' -■- 
 
How We Saw Amsterdam 169 
 
 mud flats in the old Back Bay lagoon in Boston when 
 the tide was out, and the Milldam an incubator for 
 cholera germs. 
 
 I do not exaggerate: viewed from its streets one sees 
 little or nothing of the Amsterdam that painters have 
 loved. It is far from attractive. I might say it is repulsive, 
 as its own people confess, and confirm their opinion by 
 action, for they flee from the city whenever possible. 
 The well-known saying, that the merchants of Amster- 
 dam and Rotterdam make their fortunes in those cities 
 to spend them in The Hague has become an axiomatic 
 truth. 
 
 I have said "viewed from its streets" Amsterdam is 
 not attractive; but I know that its fascinating charm can 
 be greater than that of any other city, not excepting 
 Venice itself; only it is the result of a diff^erent point of 
 view. There is only one way in which to see Amsterdam 
 as the queen city of the North, as the inspiration of poet- 
 painters, and that way we took on the Captain's arrival 
 and my return from Broek in Waterland to which I 
 have been too long in coming — but the steam-tram was 
 slow. 
 
 The country was deadly uninteresting, and I agreed 
 with an Englishman, who ventured the remark to another 
 of his nationality in the tram, that Holland is very flat! 
 Decidedly so in Waterland. I found Broek across the 
 steam-tram tracks — a small village with a bridge, a 
 tiny haven near the old-new church which, like many 
 
170 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 another of its contemporaries, has been through the fiery 
 furnace as well as half drowned by floods. There is 
 nothing distinctive about the place. I saw one cat, 
 three men and two women while I was there, and, of 
 these, all but the cat were in their homes. 
 
 I am an ardent admirer of Noord-Holland, a pam- 
 phlet-book I could wish every American intending to 
 travel in Holland might possess. It is written in English 
 by a Dutchman, and Mark Twain and Artemus Ward 
 combined would fail to bring as many tears of mirth to 
 my eyes as that innocent book has unintentionally suc- 
 ceeded in bringing. I have wept over the intense literary 
 and patriotic earnestness that has produced for a result- 
 ant so much mirth-provoking and rib-tickling English 
 expression of Dutch sentiment. 
 
 In hunting about this church to verify one of Noord- 
 Holland's remarkable statements, I came across a 
 stained window to see which was worth the tiresome 
 steam-tram journey thither. It is like a pink-tipped 
 daisy flowering in spring, the background is so pure a 
 white, the tracery of pink and red so fresh and fair and 
 delicate. It produced the efi^ect of something blossoming 
 white, yet radiant, in the dark church. 
 
 I visited a farmhouse, domicile, stable, cheese-factory 
 all under one roof. The front hall led into the cow 
 stalls. Evidently there had been no spring cleaning, 
 for the proverbial Dutch cleanliness was wanting. 
 Not a cow's tail even was tied up. Another image- 
 
How We Saw Amsterdam I7l 
 
 breaker! But the many Holstein calves were splendid 
 specimens of calfhood, and the noble Holstein mothers 
 worthy of their oflFspring. 
 
 But of the Broek that De Amicis described, not a 
 vestige remains. The coloring throughout the village 
 is neutrally quiet; indeed, in all the Netherlands I saw 
 but one house the lower half of which was painted blue, 
 and only three trees. This had evidently been done for 
 some protection against ravaging worm or insect, as 
 we whitewash ours. The Broek gardens were anything 
 but grotesque, and the people must have been industriously 
 quiet, or taking their ease as a leisure folk, for I saw 
 nothing of them. Possibly a house near the entrance 
 to the village is that to which De Amicis devotes 
 more than one of his charming pages. It is a curiosity 
 shop whose contents — I strongly suspect — are renewed 
 yearly to meet the demands of tourist trade. I know 
 of one insignificant American fly who, attracted by the 
 charming exterior, hastened to accept the kindly invita- 
 tion pressed upon her by a knowing Dutch spider. He 
 made his opportune and amiable appearance as the said 
 American fly had alighted with longing at his gate. 
 
 Somehow I persuaded myself that this special invita- 
 tion was a flattering tribute to my feminine American 
 personality, but I was quickly undeceived. I found 
 that unnumbered thousands, from Napoleon the Great 
 backwards to Peter the Great, and forward to all the 
 Greats of the present generation, had received the same. 
 
172 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 An iconoclastic place this Broek in Waterland proved to 
 be! However, I was given the freedom of the house 
 and for an hour revelled — doubtless Peter the Great, 
 Napoleon and Co. had done the same ■ — in the charming 
 old Dutch rooms and their countless treasures. When 
 I took my leave of it and Broek, I was loaded down with 
 brass that I was assured was the "real antique": a coffee- 
 pot with heater some two hundred years old, two Dutch 
 lamps — of such unworthy name, I name them not! — 
 contemporary I judge with the generation succeeding 
 Metsu and Dou, and a flower-pot that might have passed 
 through the siege of Leyden. I compared these treas- 
 ures with the old turf-pot I had purchased at the auction 
 in The Hague, and that seemed hopelessly new in com- 
 parison. I fairly gloated over the number of centuries, 
 about eight as I calculated, I was carrying back to 
 Amsterdam and James. My pride of possessor swelled 
 to reprehensible dimensions at the joyful prospect of 
 displaying them to his astonished eyes. Not a sign was 
 wanting to assure me that my antiques were veritable 
 antiquities. 
 
 "Stick to the water if you want to see Holland at its 
 best, and Amsterdam above all," were the Captain's 
 first words after our greetings were over as we sat in the 
 restaurant of Polish name on Warmoes Straat, lingering 
 over our coffee. "I can show you something so fine that 
 you will search long before you find its equal, that is, 
 if you will give me the pleasure," he said with that 
 
How We Saw Amsterdam 173 
 
 winning straightforwardness which captivated James and 
 me from our first meeting with him. 
 
 We gave him that pleasure with such alacrity that he 
 half suspected the truth: we were tired of Amsterdam. 
 While he and James were off to the Prins Hendrik Quay, 
 where I promised to meet them in an hour and a half, 
 I went up to the Ryks Museum for the sake of having 
 one more look at Rembrandt's Stone Bridge. If I never 
 see it again I shall carry with me to the end the effect 
 of that expression of translated Ught that is diffused over 
 the small canvas and transfuses every object on it. It 
 is the wondrous light of a new birth — whether of a 
 storm-cloud, or of a new day, I do not know. But I have 
 seen it before in nature, and I know that it is as wholly 
 real as it is ideal. I know, moreover, that I realized 
 something of its glory during the hours in which, from 
 a large motor boat, we, for the first time, really saw 
 Amsterdam — Amsterdam just at sunset, when the trans- 
 fusing haze lends to the perspective of the canals the 
 illusion of reaUzed ideals. 
 
 Amsterdam in form is like the half of a spider's 
 web. The concentric rings of its great canals are con- 
 nected at right angles with countless smaller canals. 
 Hence at every angle of the broken curve there is af- 
 forded, from the water, vistas that are always beautiful 
 and picturesque and, in some instances, grand. 
 
 We entered the broad curving reaches of the Heeren 
 Gracht, this Canal of the Nobles tells the character of its 
 houses two hundred years ago. Along the whole way 
 
174 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 the early spring foliage traced its tender freshness in 
 delicate line and stipple against the blackened facades 
 of the seemingly never-ending rows of houses. We came 
 at last into the water-boulevard of the Inner Amstel, and 
 passed out through its black flood gates into the magnifi- 
 cent blue expanse of the Outer Amstel. On and on we 
 sped, beneath arches of ever-lengthening stone bridges, 
 till the sun sank in a flaming irruption of orange mist 
 that, mounting suddenly almost to the horizon, burnished 
 for a few minutes the waters of the Amstel to bronze and 
 intensified every touch of green in dyke and tree and 
 river craft. It faded as suddenly, leaving the great 
 water way flowing cool, dark, blue towards the east and 
 the full rising moon. 
 
 We brought about then, and slowly, very slowly, 
 that the illusion might be ours to the end, we made our 
 way back into the inner waters of the Amstel. As the 
 moon rose higher and the daylight began to fade, the 
 facades of the warehouses darkened perceptibly, and 
 the white bands about windows and doors showed like 
 a ghostly handwriting along the walls of the narrowing 
 roadstead. As its beams touched the darkening waters 
 into brilliancy we passed from the great curve of the 
 Amstel Within, from which one may see the city's towers 
 and steeples rise by twos and threes against the sky, 
 to the black narrow way of the Zwanenburgwal. We 
 sailed on in silence beneath its dismal arches where 
 the sound of traffic was not heard, and only the chug- 
 
How We Saw Amsterdam 175 
 
 chug of the motor and the splash of dripping water 
 made themselves audible. We passed coal barges blacker 
 than our surroundings, passed floating junk shops — 
 kofs laden with old iron and other city waste. We sailed 
 on past crooked lanes of canals wholly shadowed by the 
 coming night and the leaning gables of the old houses, 
 and so on into the Jews' quarters and remembrance of 
 The Miller's Son. Here it was that we found certain 
 painted moods of Rembrandt van Ryn. It was here we 
 found the key to some of his marvellous light, and the 
 shadow that, in Rembrandt's art, is the metamorphosis 
 of light. At last we were seeing something of Rembrandt's 
 Amsterdam: the Water Ghetto that grew noisy as the 
 dusk deepened and became harsh with cries and calls. 
 
 We left it for the broad, silvered pathway of the Oude 
 Schans. On our left the Tower of Montalban, be- 
 loved of artists, stood out against the pale night, trans- 
 figured by the moonlight into a thing of beauty as it is 
 always a thing of grace. On, still on, we sailed to the 
 open harbor where the forest of masts showed like a 
 spider's web against the clear west, and the ancient 
 Tower of Tears reminded us that this was no scenic setting 
 arranged for a traveller's aesthetic enjoyment, but a real 
 world-stage whereon generation after generation has 
 played its part in the Tragedy of Life, and human 
 prayers, human tears, human hearts and human heart- 
 aches have followed those that go down to the sea in ships. 
 
 Afterwards we entered the city again to explore the 
 
176 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 water way of the Oude Zyds Voorburgwal and pass be- 
 neath the shadows of the Oude Kerk. We crossed the 
 brilhant Rokin, the narrow strait of the Groenenburgwal, 
 and took in the whole length of the Kloviniersburgwal 
 from which one has a lovely view of the steeple of the 
 Zuider Kerk, or South Church, part Moorish, part Italian, 
 part Dutch, part Spanish; and just there we heard the 
 play of its good-night chimes. 
 
 So we saw Amsterdam. So it should always be seen; 
 for only so can one realize its full charm. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE DON QUIXOTE COUNTRY 
 
 The Knight of La Mancha would have had his hands 
 full if he had attempted to tilt with all the windmills be- 
 tween Amsterdam and Koog on the Zaan. It is pre- 
 eminently the windmill country, and one has to adapt 
 himself to an entirely new environment even in this land 
 of windmills. As James said, "It is jabberwocky." 
 
 We had to accustom ourselves, after we had seen 
 Amsterdam's towers vanish in perspective, and en- 
 tered the interesting Zaan, to a new order of things in 
 heaven and on earth. It was decidedly unsettling to see 
 the top of a prosaic warehouse suddenly sprout a pair 
 of gigantic wings, to become aware, after much rubbing 
 of the eyes, that the apse of a stately church in the dis- 
 tance was, to all appearances, gyrating in a fantastic 
 pas seul. I confess I found it startling to see a gray- 
 thatched roof lift itself, to all appearances, with a mighty 
 heave several feet above its own ridgepole. More than 
 one delicate spire I saw executing a fine "drop kick." 
 
 When to these optical illusions is added the clear- 
 visioned fact that all about are scores of windmills large 
 and small, whirling, clicking, sawing, grinding, crushing, 
 hoisting for all they are worth to their owners; when upon 
 
 12 177 ' 
 
178 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 the horizon numberless little white and gray canvas 
 clouds are twirling in seemingly perpetual motion like 
 automatic pinwheels; when it is seen that, in consequence, 
 the air is filled both far and near with movement, the sky 
 with rotating silhouettes, and the solid earth swept with 
 shadows of long-armed sails, the reader may realize, 
 perhaps, that a susceptible traveller in such parts is apt 
 to find himself in a state of mind in which he questions 
 his sanity. 
 
 But there is no monotony in this mill-land, and there is 
 an exquisite harmony of color. One sees a gray mill, 
 gray-thatched, white sails, and the wooden blades touched 
 strongly with vermilion; an olive-green body, iron-rust 
 red canvases and blades of solid white; a black bucca- 
 neer with white sails and black arms striped with bright 
 apple-green. The combinations seem infinite, but they 
 are always pleasing. 
 
 The mills in the various provinces vary in construc- 
 tion and color as widely as the costumes of the pro- 
 vincials. Take, for examples, the stately mill, typical of 
 all stateliness, on the Coolvest in the business centre 
 of Rotterdam, the Maypole of Utrecht, all curving grace, 
 the perfect type of a country mill, the great sawmill of 
 rugged mass, straight line and sharp angle, near 
 Zaandam, the old five-storied mill by St. Catherine's 
 Bridge at Haarlem, the two noble ones at Gorinchem, 
 including De Eendracht, the island grainmill in far-away 
 Zierikzee, — all these express, as it were, the dialects of 
 
The Don Quixote Country 179 
 
 mill architecture; sails, blades, roofs, foundation, ma- 
 terial, construction, thatching and coloring, all vary; 
 and all together they lend to a remarkable land a charm 
 which no other possesses. 
 
 It was a pretty sight to see the windmills put to sleep 
 with declining day, the great arms rotating more and 
 more slowly, the shadows on the meadows growing 
 longer as they swept more and more lazily over the green, 
 the almost imperceptible stopping; to see the furling of 
 the great sails, and the miller making ill fast for the 
 night; to see him disappearing through the dark door- 
 way high up on the encircling balcony, the closing of the 
 door behind him, and with it the closing of the little 
 industrial drama that is played out each day to the end; 
 to watch, at last, the wondrously tinted twilight curtains, 
 which belong to these northern latitudes, as they dropped 
 upon the daily drama in this enchanted land. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 ALKMAAR S WEIGH HOUSE 
 
 We made a continuous voyage, after leaving the wind- 
 mill country at Koog, by way of the interesting Zaan to 
 the broad Lake of Alkmaar whereon we sailed as on the 
 shallow waters of an inland sea. It is lonely thereabout, 
 but not desolate, and beautiful in the long crimson lights 
 of a brilliant sunset. Emerging from the lake we entered 
 the North Holland Canal which runs between sparsely 
 settled stretches of marshlands where no tree is seen, 
 where no bird sings, where no lowing of cattle, no human 
 note is heard at sundown between earth and sky, and 
 made the long straight approach to Alkmaar. 
 
 At a quarter of nine we entered the haven. Behind us 
 the night was near, and heavens and canal were darkly 
 blue, the one a reflection of the other. Beneath and 
 about us the waters of the narrow harbor gleamed a 
 pomegranate pink, which is half crocus-yellow, in that 
 wonderful afterglow. Before us the dwellings and ware- 
 houses, the steep, irregular, crowded roofs, the curiously 
 shaped gables and the delicate spire of the Custom 
 House stood out black against the background of a pale, 
 saffron-tinted sky. The illustration, which shows the 
 approach to the ancient Weigh House at Alkmaar, is 
 
 180 
 
ALKMAAR'S WEIGH HOUSE 
 
Alkmaar's Weigh House 181 
 
 perfect in its way and serves for an intimation of what 
 the beauty of such approaches may be when exquisite 
 coloring enhances the reflections. 
 
 The Captain's joy in our joy was a delight to both 
 James and me. We followed him trustfully from the 
 wharf (there are no conveyances to meet the Alkmaar 
 Packet and private Broomsticks !) along a roadway paved 
 with what I call agony stones, small, sharp-angled pieces 
 of granite or brick or stone laid closely. The way was 
 dark with overarching trees, and after various turnings 
 our guide brought us to an old inn, De Toelast. It proved 
 a very haven of rest where, after a supper of noble pro- 
 portions at ten, we took our brass candlesticks from an 
 ancient mahogany table in the entrance hall, and climbed 
 the steep stairs to the cozy, old-fashioned bedrooms, 
 furnished, all of them, in solid mahogany. As usual the 
 beds were bolstered with a slice of mattress resembling 
 a huge wedge of cheese (James propounded the theory 
 that the many round-shouldered men and women of the 
 better class are the resultant of sleeping at such an 
 angle), pillowed with two small beds, double-blanketed 
 with Holland wool, and overlaid with a gay tufted 
 cotton comforter the weight of which I judged to be about 
 twenty pounds. In journeying through the Netherlands 
 one should reckon on the time it takes to un-make and 
 re-make the Dutch beds. One learns the routine with 
 time and how to expedite matters, but out of every six 
 
182 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 months one day should be counted lost in the exigencies 
 of bed-making. 
 
 I shall not soon forget that awakening. Half the 
 charm of foreign travel is to enter a new place under 
 cover of night and awake early in the morning full of 
 anticipations at prospect of the new and the unknown. 
 At that hour all sounds are suggestive, all garden fra- 
 grances idealizing, all glimpses of the early morning sun 
 an earnest of many joyful hours. I awoke on this 
 special morning with the sound of the carillon dropping 
 its music from clear, high-pitched bells. Now and then 
 a note struck in accord with an anvil's hammer rung 
 regularly by some harmonious blacksmith in the neighbor- 
 hood. I heard the cackling of geese, the baaing of sheep, 
 but afar, the bleating of lambs, not of several, but, I 
 judged by the noise, of several hundreds. In the midst 
 of these sounds the clocks began striking seven. I 
 counted six in all, each following the other with unex- 
 pected irregularity. This noisy olla podrtda proved too 
 much for a parrot beneath my window who, straightway 
 rousing to the fray, proceeded to imitate every known 
 bird-call and finished with a succession of meouws real 
 enough to have deceived the best intentioned cat in 
 Alkmaar. It was time to be abroad. 
 
 While dressing I took a peep from my window at the 
 small Dutch garden below. It was made up of two high, 
 ivy-covered walls and a grass-patch. A laburnum tree, 
 laden with its drooping yellow clusters, made morning 
 
Alkmaar's Weigh House 183 
 
 glorious in one corner, in another a magnolia was just 
 opening its white moons. I went out into the fresh 
 morning lights and found the town astir. In these 
 latitudes half the work is done in the long mornings be- 
 fore six, and I went with the human stream. It carried 
 me along the Mient — rows of fine old houses and shops 
 bordering a kind of Grand Canal, crossed by a brick- 
 arched Dutch Rialto, and next-door neighbor to the 
 Weigh House — and swept me into a corner of the 
 Market-Place. There I remained till James and the 
 Captain found me. That human stream debouching on 
 the Market-Place divided my interest with the Place and 
 its contents. It was what the Dutch call Beast Market, 
 for there are likewise Butter Markets, Grain Markets and 
 Cheese Markets, all of which find their social centre in 
 the Market Place hard by the famous Weigh House. In 
 that one spot were gathered hundreds of farmers in long 
 blue frocks which Mauve in his paintings has made 
 classic. They carried the shepherd's crook, and leaned 
 on it, hooked up lambs with it, restrained headstrong 
 rams and lined up straying goats with it. They made 
 their slow gesticulations of approval or dissent with it, 
 and, for aught I know, bargained with it. It was the 
 bishop's crozier democratized. A man's gathering truly, 
 and typical of man's occupation from Abraham down. 
 
 I have never seen such flocks of long-wooled sheep, 
 both ewes and rams, not even on English downs, nor such 
 herds of milk-white goats, with hair like spun silk. 
 
184 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 The fathers of the latter were clean-Hmbed, thin-necked, 
 large-eyed, the mothers delicate creatures with large full 
 pink udders; the spotless kids worthy to be apotheosized 
 by a Jan Steen or a Van Ostade. The Market Place 
 was filled with the white beasts, the boats moving along 
 the canal were white with them; the arms of small boys 
 full of them as they aided the protesting ones by hoisting 
 the hind legs and running them on their two forefeet along 
 the narrow walk or gang-plank towards the pens. I 
 discovered a fact, which is doubtless well known to the 
 initiated, that, as a horse's pace is set by the reach of his 
 hind legs, so an innocent goat's power of resistance lies 
 in his haunches. Deprive him of these, and you have the 
 ludicrous process of forced locomotion which I saw all 
 through North Holland. 
 
 There is no denying it — the centre of attraction at 
 Alkmaar is its Markets, and Market Place dominated by 
 the ancient Weigh House, and approached by the two 
 picturesque canals that border the Mient and Luttik 
 Oudorp. 
 
 Like many another Dutch town Alkmaar has had its 
 memorable siege and covered itself with the glory of a 
 brave resistance. It has its Great Church that lost its 
 tower four hundred years ago, which shows it to be in 
 sympathy with a hundred other churches in a like 
 plight. Indeed, there would seem to be scarce an Old 
 Church or Great Church, Abbey or Cathedral in Hol- 
 land, the tower of which has not tumbled down in some 
 
Alkmaar's Weigh House 185 
 
 past century, which has not lost a nave, as at Utrecht, 
 or an apse, a roof, or perchance itself, as at Amersfoort, 
 in some disaster caused by wind, subsidence, fire or 
 floods. It has a really beautiful Stadhuis and a "wood," 
 a weak imitation of Haarlem. It has, also, for subur- 
 ban neighbors, proud Egmond aan Zee and Egmond 
 op den Hoef and Egmond-Binnen; it will not let you 
 forget its great names. 
 
 But when all is said and all is read — as read it may 
 be from Motley to De Amicis — it is the beautiful old 
 Weigh House, reflected in the tree-fringed canal by the 
 Luttik Oudorp and presiding over the busy mart and 
 the human throng which fills it, that draws us to Alk- 
 maar and holds us there. It is the human life, also, 
 that foregathers here on market days: the men in the 
 long blue frocks, crook in hand, and their wives and 
 daughters, charming each, whether young, middle-aged 
 or old, in her neat costume and rich headgear, topped 
 by a truncated cone of a yellow straw bonnet. The 
 delicate gold band half an inch wide that is worn on 
 the forehead is wrought with all the cunning and al- 
 most genius of the goldsmith's art in finest filigree. An 
 unmarried woman wears the band across the left temple; 
 it extends to the middle of the forehead. A married 
 woman wears hers on the right. They are caught be- 
 neath the dainty embroidered cap, and fastened to 
 a broad gold band beneath it by long gold pins the 
 heads of which, projecting over each temple, are either 
 
186 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 exquisitely chased, wrought in relief, or made in 
 filigree. 
 
 One may see hundreds of these bright, fresh faces, 
 framed in their caps and rich headgear, on the Mient 
 where they make their purchases. One will find them 
 in the silversmiths' shops buying the silver chains, the 
 bracelets, the buttons for everyday wear. For they are 
 rich, rich beyond teUing, these plain-spoken, kindly 
 people of North Holland, and the Market is their bourse. 
 Like the ancient unvitiated Romans they find their 
 riches in the barter and exchange of their pecunia; 
 hence their satisfactory pecuniary condition. 
 
 We stood with a small group of peasants by the draw- 
 bridge over the canal by the Luttik Oudorp and listened 
 to the carillon in the Weigh House steeple at twelve of 
 noon. It played unheeded by the busy hundreds who 
 were bargaining sheep and goats, nor separating one 
 from the other. But, when the bell boomed its dozen 
 strokes, and the famous little knights on their mimic 
 platform beneath the clock caracoled gaily and dought- 
 ily back and forth, in and out in mock tourney, there 
 was a moment's lull in the murmur of tongues, and 
 more than one sunburned, strong-lined peasant face was 
 raised to this mimic Pantomime of the Ages acted to 
 the life so far above their heads. We are children, all. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 AN INTERNATIONAL COMPLICATION 
 
 The Captain took advantage while at Alkmaar of its 
 vicinity to Egmond aan Zee to pay a day's visit to 
 a friend there, promising to rejoin us later when he 
 should have his three weeks' furlough. James and I 
 went by train to Hoorn, having given orders to The 
 Broomstick's owner, the "nephew-captain" as we called 
 him, to pick us up at that port. We followed this 
 plan for two reasons: we wished to keep that perfect 
 approach to Alkmaar free from anti-climax by avoiding 
 the monotonous back-door water ways between Alkmaar 
 and Hoorn; and we wanted to enter Hoorn by its inimi- 
 table port. 
 
 In the present age the traveller in the Netherlands 
 must search far and wide, must in some instances mine 
 for the remaining bits of genuine old Dutch setting in 
 those havens, towns and hamlets which have been the 
 delight as well as the despair of generations of artists. 
 The Old Time is passing all too quickly in the presence 
 of the inundating flood of the New which is pressing 
 with overwhelming force against the various barriers 
 and dykes, social, industrial, commercial and political, 
 that for so long have guarded the homogeneous interests 
 
 187 
 
188 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 of the Dutch, and preserved intact the individuaHty of 
 their water ways, towns and cities. Everywhere one can 
 see that the Holland that Was is rapidly passing. In 
 fifteen years, I venture to predict, a place like the Port 
 of Hoorn, if preserved at all, will be one of the rare 
 Meccas for all lovers of the old, inimitable Dutch life. 
 
 All over this land there has been subsidence and 
 consequent leanings and totterings of noble towers and 
 ancient walls. Note the list of the Old Church Tower 
 at Delft; it is one of many. All over the land there 
 is a constant rehabilitating process and its corollary, 
 constant tearing down. One canal after another is filled 
 in and becomes a barren space planted with young 
 trees, or grassed over and set with flower-beds. The 
 approaches to Weigh Houses, Fish Bridges, Market 
 Places are, many of them, choked with sand in the 
 same way, and the old landmarks are left stranded high 
 and dry, looking lonely and out of place, in the midst 
 of architectural incongruity. Ramparts have become 
 shaded boulevards noisy with electric tram, or as wals, the 
 Dutch word for the same, are converted into broad 
 thoroughfares like the Nieuive Zyds Voorburgwal in 
 Amsterdam, which the illustration facing page 169 shows 
 in its own, old, dark beauty. Home after home is 
 being torn down either because the walls have been 
 weakened by age, or in order to make room for new 
 business blocks. The railway stations, which may be 
 considered almost without the limits of city and town, 
 
An International Complication 189 
 
 and farthest distant from the water way traffic, will soon 
 be centres for the new sections which are springing up 
 in their neighborhood, hopelessly new, although lovely, 
 with no single feature to connect them with the Holland 
 that was. One almost fails to recognize on the walls 
 of the galleries in paintings, etchings, or drawings of 
 a generation since many of the present localities once 
 so famous for their unique beauty. Small wonder we 
 wanted to see Hoorn! 
 
 I took the opportunity, on the short train ride, to 
 speak of my "tale" which I had been longing to unfold 
 ever since we left Leyden. I approached the subject 
 in a roundabout way. 
 
 "You're queer, James." 
 
 "As how?" He was looking out of the window at an 
 uninteresting stretch of country and did not turn his head. 
 
 "You've never said one word about what you must 
 have known I've been longing to tell you ever since we 
 were in Leyden." 
 
 "I knew if I waited long enough you would tell me 
 of your own accord." This remark was so true I had 
 no response ready. I tried another tack. 
 
 "Don't you want to know ?" 
 
 "That depends." 
 
 "On what?" 
 
 "On what it is." 
 
 "Well, how are you going to know whether you want 
 to know or not, unless you know what it is ? " 
 
190 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 "I don't — I mean, I'm not." 
 
 "Now, James, you're not listening to a word I say. 
 Will you look at me?" 
 
 "That depends." 
 
 "On what ?" 
 
 "On whether you're going to help me out of the scrape 
 your enthusiasm got me into." 
 
 "Scrape.? There, I knew something was bothering 
 you!" I exclaimed, triumphantly. "Out with it." 
 
 "You tell first." He turned to me then with such a 
 whimsically perplexed and half-irritated look in those 
 handsome eyes of his that I was moved to comfort him 
 with something more substantial than words, but I 
 refrained, for too much was at stake. Instead, I made a 
 self-sacrifice 
 
 "No, James, you tell me. Mine can wait." 
 
 "That is just the trouble. If you hadn't lain low so 
 long with your information, there wouldn't be such a 
 complication now." 
 
 "Why, what is the matter, James? Did you know 
 that Cousins Lou and Lois were going to join us as soon 
 as they can ? Really I couldn't say no to them; they 
 are wild to see Holland." I knew I was giving in "all 
 along the line," but James' tone and use of the word 
 "complication" made me desperate. 
 
 "I suspected it from your actions," he replied. 
 
 "My actions!" I echoed in amazement. "I was not 
 aware that I had comported myself otherwise than usual." 
 
An International Complication 191 
 
 "Yes, your actions. You've been smiling to yourself 
 in off moments, and mooning by yourself by the taffrail. 
 Yesterday you encouraged the Captain to quote Dutch 
 poetry for you although you couldn't understand five 
 words out of ten. I know the signs," he said emphat- 
 ically and with an increasing earnestness which bordered 
 dangerously on severity; "you're planning a match." 
 I felt the challenge conveyed in his manner and 
 promptly accepted it. 
 
 "What if I am?" I demanded with an earnestness 
 that matched his. I confess I resent at times too much 
 mental telepathy between James and me. It is all well 
 enough to be "one in soul," but this having "a single 
 thought" is not always reassuring. "I shouldn't be a 
 woman if I didn't enjoy match-making, even in Holland, 
 where it's damp enough to quench all the smoking flax 
 of sentiment the world contains. You know yourself 
 that Lois is captivating — everybody finds her so. 
 And she must be married sometime: it's her destiny 
 as it was mine." 
 
 "Umph! Which one have you settled on ?" 
 
 "Really, James, this is premature. I'm not a friend 
 of international marriages — but who knows ? If the 
 Captain should prove as charming to others as he has 
 to us — 
 
 "Look here, Persis, now I'll have no nonsense. I'm 
 in a deuce of a fix with Ben." 
 
 "What about Ben?" I tried to ask innocently, but 
 
192 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 my husband read me — oh, read me through and 
 through ! 
 
 "What about Ben ?" (I do love to see James roused 
 to righteous indignation; it is so becoming to his eyes. 
 I tell him so afterwa^'ds.) "You know well enough 
 what about Ben. Didn't you do all in your power last 
 winter to throw those two together ? And didn't I tell 
 you you were playing with fire ? " 
 
 "Where was the harm? Nobody was burnt that I 
 know of; and Ben is such a splendid fellow he deserves 
 some one as lovely as Lois — " 
 
 "And now you propose to throw the Captain into the 
 same net, and let her play with both fellows at the same 
 time! Umph!" 
 
 " But Ben escaped apparently harmless for all I know. 
 How about Lois ? My sympathies are with the woman 
 every time." 
 
 "They are, are they?" It was the nearest approach 
 to a sneer I had ever heard in James' voice. "Lois can 
 take care of herself; but here is a letter which Ben 
 wrote before he cablegraphed and it has just been for- 
 warded. It will prove an eye-opener even to you, if 
 I'm not mistaken. The truth is Lois has turned him 
 down, and if she is my cousin, I'll give her a piece of 
 my mind when I see her. Ben's my friend, and I won't 
 have him fooled with by any of my blood." 
 
 "Oh, James!" I confess I was appalled at the result 
 of my winter's manoeuvring and the consequence of my 
 
An International Complication 193 
 
 rashly enthusiastic invitation to the girls. I call them 
 that although, as I said, Cousin Lou is forty if she's a day. 
 
 "Yes, and what is more he writes me here that he's 
 coming to be with us, alone — and forget it! He isn't 
 going to do things by halves if he has been jilted by a 
 girl with no conscience and little heart. I'll tell him 
 he's well rid of her." 
 
 "Oh, James!" 
 
 "Yes, and you've been planning to throw those two 
 together again over here and use the Captain as a foil — " 
 
 "Oh, James!" 
 
 "Yes, and I won't have Ben, or the Captain either, 
 used in any such way. Ben has enough backbone to 
 stand up to it all right on The Broomstick's deck; and 
 the Captain is an all-round fine man. But these foreigners 
 are mighty free with their pistols, especially the army 
 men, and the first we know there'll be a nice little duel 
 in the Haarlem woods, and as a result international 
 complications of a mighty unpleasant sort for us all." 
 He spoke moodily. 
 
 "Oh, James! I'll write to-night and tell them not to 
 come; the letter will reach them at Lucerne — " 
 
 He interrupted me. "You'll do nothing of the sort. 
 Let them come on now — the more the merrier," he 
 added, grimly, "as we're in for it. I'm not going to have 
 you make matters worse by intimating to the girl that 
 Ben is so hard hit he can't bear her presence, not much! 
 But I'll guarantee Ben can stand it if she can. You let 
 
 IS 
 
194 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 things alone now. Persis, — you haven't said a word 
 about Ben's coming to us, have you?" he demanded 
 with sudden suspicion. 
 
 "Not a word; not a hint, even." 
 
 "All the better for you," he grumbled. Then, with a 
 twitch of his upper lip which is a sure sign of returning 
 good humor with himself and his other half, he added: 
 "You can write them to meet us at Dordrecht. We'll 
 take Ben on at Nymegen. I propose to let the surprise 
 party be on Miss Lois' side rather than Ben's." 
 
 "Just as you say, James," I answered, meekly. Where- 
 upon he smiled in what I thought a peculiar manner. 
 
 When James is masterful I am always submissive, out- 
 wardly. In the present case I realized the gravity of this 
 small international complication that confronted us 
 and threatened to spoil our inward and outward harmony 
 while in the Netherlands. But I kept my fears to myself 
 and trusted to my intuitions, as a woman will when 
 driven to the wall by an over-logical husband. These 
 led me to conclusions diametrically opposed to those 
 which James had reached along his line of reasoning; 
 but he was in no mood to hear them just then, and I 
 welcomed the sound of "Hoorn" from the guards. I 
 felt sure the new environment was needed to distract 
 his mind and turn his thoughts from this unexpected 
 complication of the nations. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE PORT OF HOORN 
 
 It has been my experience that when a man looks at 
 a serious small matter through his strongest pessimistic 
 glasses, he sees it in black, jet-black, without any relief 
 from any quarter of the universe. This is especially 
 true if his vision be colored at that moment by a sense 
 of vacuity in the inner man, and a feeling of personal 
 injury that a belated lunch or dinner is apt to produce. 
 Profiting by my experience I led the way, without any 
 preliminaries, from the station straight across the 
 shaded green to a modest-looking house which bore the 
 enigmatical name of The Curry Comb. 
 
 I count The Curry Comb as one of my most delight- 
 ful "finds," worthy to be incorporated and memorialized 
 in that inimitable pamphlet, Noord Holland. It stands, 
 appropriately, between the stables and Cattle Market. 
 We were isolated in the state front room, the windows 
 of which looked out upon a large Place, backed by a 
 dignified remise and, at that hour, just at the close of 
 the market, filled with vehicles of all descriptions. It 
 was again Beast Market day, and every town and ham- 
 let in the country-side had sent its quota of sheep, its 
 phalanx of stolid farmers with their vrouws, its bevy of 
 
 195 
 
196 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 gay youths and maidens to attend it. The men were 
 harnessing splendid specimens of North Holland's fa- 
 mous breed of horses into high, two-wheeled calashes, 
 into huge, bright blue sheep carts as long as a Main 
 jigger, into low, curving wooden galleons on wheels, 
 dash-boards, sides, and back-boards beautifully carved. 
 These Dutch schooners, which may be counted by the 
 hundreds on market-day, are extremely graceful in 
 shape, and their white hoods form an incomparable 
 frame for the rosy, smiling faces, dainty caps, glitter- 
 ing head-pieces, silver chains and chatelaines, for the 
 gay bodices and snow-white tuckers of the farmers' 
 wives and daughters whose buxom figures, plus their 
 amplitude of petticoat, fill the vehicles to overflowing. 
 
 It was a pretty sight to watch the merry departures, 
 and gladsome to hear the fun and laughter attendant 
 upon each. The horses looked to be richly caparisoned 
 in shining leather and brass harness, banded with white 
 sheep's wool about the withers to prevent chafing. Coal 
 black mares, glossy-coated and round-haunched, reared 
 and pranced and caracoled in tune with the festive 
 time and place. At such seasons one may see something 
 of Dutch country life at its best. 
 
 While waiting for our dinner, we looked into the 
 back room where at a long table two score or more of 
 the elders of the land were having a substantial after- 
 market meal. The dressers were loaded with good 
 things. Silver guldens, kwartjes, Jubbeltjes, stuivers — 
 
The Port of Hoorn 197 
 
 the small five-cent Dutch silver piece, that is rarely 
 found in city exchange — were keeping up a kind of 
 running accompaniment to the tinkling of glasses; 
 otherwise there was nothing to be heard but the evi- 
 dence of strict attention to the business in hand. The 
 Dutch accept their chief meal with gravity and a 
 species of stolid earnestness that does not encourage 
 jest. 
 
 Our own dinner proved satisfactory in every respect: 
 a tender, juicy beefsteak smothered in potatoes and 
 onions, new garden beans, white and gray bread with 
 delicious butter. It was not an order; we simply took 
 what was set before us. As a general rule we found 
 this method of procedure in the smaller inns most sat- 
 isfactory. The Dutch host was not put out of coun- 
 tenance by any demand on our part to provide the 
 products of the American market, or the cuisine of a 
 Delmonico. James, quoting, or rather paraphrasing, to 
 suit the occasion, that pregnant sentence from A Senti- 
 mental journey, "An Englishman does not travel to see 
 Englishmen," used to remind himself and me, at least 
 once a week, that an American does not travel m the 
 Netherlands to find America. With this in mind, we 
 found ourselves well kept, well served, well fed — with 
 but one exception — throughout the Netherlands. The 
 smaller towns and villages can boast of inns and a 
 homely hospitality which no New England village of 
 the same size can offer to a traveller. Our section of 
 
198 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 the country, at least, might well learn a lesson in this 
 respect from the Dutch. 
 
 After dinner our host caused to be rolled out of the 
 adjoining remise a fete-day barouche of Hoorn. It was 
 an e'dttion de luxe of a barouche, upholstered in down, 
 and heavy satin of a delicate pearl-gray. I am con- 
 vinced the little Queen, or her Queen Mother, must 
 have used it as a state conveyance on some rare visit 
 to the town. It looked like the trappings of royalty; 
 it felt like the "seats of the mighty." We were bur- 
 dened with such state, and seemed much out of place 
 as we drove about the ancient capital of North Holland. 
 It would have suited our democratic taste to have driven 
 in one of those charming Dutch galleons; but this par- 
 ticular expression of hospitality on our landlord's part 
 was too perfect to be ignored. 
 
 We were shown the sights of Hoorn: the mosaic of a 
 Stadhuis, the brick and stone facade of which, to ail 
 appearances, faces both ways. The roof is obliged to 
 reconcile itself to this architectural freak by an orna- 
 mental angle of jointure. The effect of the whole is 
 pleasing by reason of its well-balanced oddity and the 
 richness of mosaic. We were taken to the old hospital 
 of St. Jan, and the Museum built of gray stone. Its 
 high stepped gable looks like a rampant corner of a 
 Zoological Garden, it has so many sculptured lions — 
 one posing defiantly on every step. We were driven 
 through the narrow streets which, much to our con- 
 
THE PORT OF HOORN 
 
The Port of Hoorn 199 
 
 fusion and the inhabitants' amusement, our royal coach 
 filled from wall to waiU, and upon whose tiny gabled 
 houses our coachman, in his tall, parade hat, 'looked 
 down from his high seat. Even the children were 
 obliged to back into doorways to permit our passing 
 without accident, and the beautiful little houses, mosaics 
 of sculptured gray stone, or carved wood, and brick of 
 a warm, seasoned red, were almost within our reach. 
 
 But it was when we had finished with the "sights" 
 and descended from our state equipage that we began 
 to be really happy in Hoorn. James said his demo- 
 cratic shanks' mare was good enough for him in so 
 small a place, and with these steeds we hied us without 
 delay to the ancient Port. There, sitting on the quay, 
 we drew a long satisfied breath — we were facing an- 
 other realized ideal! 
 
 In artistic charm I associate this port, its approach 
 and surroundings, with Gorinchem on the Merwede and 
 Veere on the island of Walcheren, utterly unlike as are 
 all three. 
 
 Picture a spacious haven, and beyond it a narrow 
 port of entry, irregular in form, filled, not only with 
 small sailing-craft of every kind, but, to all appearances, 
 with houses, trees, drawbridges, warehouses, country 
 carts, fish-nets, rigging, fish-creels, piles of cheeses and 
 quintals of fish — the whole watched over by an inde- 
 scribable Tower, the principal Gate of Hoorn, that 
 nearly wets its foot in the waters of the haven. 
 
200 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 This chief Tower-Gate is all unexpected gables, and 
 tiny unintentional dormer windows breaking out in the 
 most surprising spots on the steep-gabled roofs. The 
 structure is rounded behind like the apse of a cathedral, 
 and flat before Hke the rigid Bargello in Florence, but 
 shows everywhere a florescence of lovely cornice, win- 
 dows, and sculpture. It is a Tower that at every angle 
 of view presents a different face. It is topped by an 
 exquisite and audaciously aspiring steeple which is the 
 proud possessor of a clock-tower, belfry, lookout and, 
 far aloft, a weather-vane ship. Add to these details of 
 construction a coloring at once rich, subdued, and har- 
 monious, the dignity of a noble architecture of a noble 
 age, the grace that every stone gathers with the weather- 
 ing of centuries, and you may form a concept, colorless 
 as compared with the actual, of this Tower that for so 
 long has guarded the inimitable Port of Hoorn. 
 
 The setting of this Tower-Gate presents a fascinating 
 conglomerate, and it is impossible to say at first where 
 the streets and land end, and the wharves and waters 
 begin; whether the drawbridge be an isthmus or strait; 
 whether the piles of cheeses lie on docks or decks; whether 
 the sailors are splicing their rigging or mending their 
 nets; whether the lower story of the Tower is shadowed 
 by adjacent trees or by a huge brown sail that seems in- 
 extricably entangled among them. With the lifting of the 
 drawbridge it seemed as if some cataclysm of subsidence 
 must ensue and houses, trees, ships disappear from sight. 
 
The Port of Hoorn 20i 
 
 I believe if every copy of the Bible in the Netherlands 
 were to be destroyed, that much of its contents might 
 still be read written in wood and stone, on silver and 
 gold, on brass, bronze, and iron throughout the length 
 and breadth of the Low Countries. We find it every- 
 where: on houses, lintels, doors, gates, towers, churches, 
 choirs, stalls, pulpits, screens, bells, pails, bread-boards, 
 knife-handles, mangling-boards. So here at Hoorn. On 
 the rounded side of the Gate towards the haven is cut in 
 stone, Matthew vtt. 13. — Enter ye in at the strait gate. 
 The conclusion in this case is hardly obvious as a decree 
 of fate. It would seem that, in the Port of Hoorn, this 
 special strait gate and narrow way, far from leading to 
 life, might well, without the caution of a particularly 
 knowing skipper, court destruction. 
 
 About two hours before sunset we watched for the 
 coming of The Broomstick. It impressed us as particu- 
 larly appropriate that our boat, with its honored and 
 honoring symbol of victory, should make a proud entry 
 into this special port. As every reader of a book on 
 Holland knows. Admiral Martin Tromp, who nailed the 
 historical broomstick to his masthead, levied many of 
 the ships that formed his famous fighting fleet at Hoorn. 
 We pleased ourselves, also, as Americans, dwellers on 
 another continent, in the knowledge that our two great 
 Americas, washed by the waters of three oceans, should 
 be linked historically to this little Port of Hoorn touched 
 only by the waves of the Zuider Zee! Willem Schouten, 
 
202 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 born here, rounded the famous cape in 1616, and named 
 It after his native town. 
 
 We watched with full-blown American pride for the 
 entrance of our boat. We congratulated ourselves that 
 no other Americans had ever sat on the coping of the 
 old quay anticipating the entry of their own Dutch Broom- 
 stick. We were lingering on these heights of patriotic 
 and egotistic sentiment when we beheld that worthy 
 craft suddenly heave into sight almost under our very 
 noses. Evidently she was making what seemed to be a 
 supreme effort to round the Tower and double the trunk 
 of a tree just in front of us, without fouling the drawbridge 
 and running down two scows laden with cabbages. 
 
 Willem Schouten's efforts to double the renowned Cape 
 could never have required greater nicety of calculation, 
 nor more persistent struggle. Our nephew-captain and 
 his uncle, our first and only mate, Cornells Does, were 
 poling and fending with desperate earnestness. Our 
 vrouw, Neeltje, was at the helm. Her usually placid 
 face wore such an unwonted, ruffled look that it amounted 
 to an actual disfigurement. Her very cap-flaps, wide 
 as an elephant's ears, were limp, and a distracting and 
 distracted mongrel cur, part dachshund, part terrier, 
 — an addition to our crew, I at once perceived, since 
 leaving Alkmaar — was racing like mad from stem to 
 stern and filling the peaceful air of the Port with mongrel 
 yelps. 
 
 An ignominious entrance for the second Broomstick ! 
 
The Port of Hoorn 203 
 
 I was glad no Admiral Van Tromp was there to witness 
 it ; even James expressed his relief that he had ordered 
 the Stars and Stripes hauled down in our absence. He 
 caught at the hne, lent a hand, and helped to make our 
 boat fast to a convenient pile. Then we entered into our 
 own — the mongrel cur, meanwhile, barking furiously 
 from the extreme peak of the prow, where he stood like 
 an animated figurehead, forefeet stemmed, tail straight 
 and quivering, body jerking as if with automatic wires, 
 and vociferously proclaiming himself master of the situ- 
 ation. 
 
 It is, perhaps, needless to say that we adopted him on 
 the spot in order to keep him quiet, and prevent our crew 
 from striking. In Holland a boat without a dog-attach- 
 ment is as anomalous and unpopular as a sewing-machine 
 without an automatic tension. Both James and I knew 
 there had been some dissatisfaction among the crew, but, 
 up to the moment when the dog announced himself, had 
 failed to find a cause. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 AN ANCIENT OF DAYS 
 
 "Of de kronen 
 
 Luister toonen, 
 Vorsten, staaien hloeimend staan, 
 
 Longer stonde 
 
 Duurt hun ronde 
 Maar hun avond spoedt toch aan." 
 
 So runs a verse of a Dutch poem. In the original it is 
 comparable in music of rhythm, perfection of rhyme, 
 beauty of expression and depth of sentiment with Goethe's 
 famous 
 
 "Ueber alien Gipfeln 
 1st Ruh." 
 
 I know of no greater praise. The following is a free 
 translation: 
 
 Crowns may gleam 
 With jewelled beam, 
 States may thrive and princely race. 
 One long hour 
 Lasts their power. 
 But their evening comes apace. 
 
 204 
 
An Ancient of Days 205 
 
 It was in Friesland I read this. It is in Friesland one 
 may feel its truth. 
 
 Short as the voyage was across the Zuider Zee it seemed 
 to bring us to a foreign shore — and to us a physical 
 sense of northernness. We left the Port of Hoorn behind 
 us, and presently on the left the towers of Enkuizen rose 
 like those of a dream city from out the very waves them- 
 selves. Its fishing fleet was abroad that day, and James 
 counted two hundred pinken all about us and afar on 
 the horizon. In the evening light the Zuider Zee is 
 remarkable for the clarity of its delicate coloring, an 
 effect, possibly, of its shallow waters. There is a canvas 
 by Mesdag in his museum that shows this. On that even- 
 ing pale green predominated. The sea, being smooth, 
 showed like a pavement of chrysoprase, on which the 
 black hulls of such of the fleet as were at anchor rested 
 motionless. Here and there a sail caught the pale sun- 
 light, and on all sides the severe grace of spar and rigging 
 was etched into a soft blue-gray sky. 
 
 Poor Stavoren! As we approached its desolate pier 
 we realized that all our reading about this ancient, 
 uncrowned land had not prepared us for the actual and 
 complete effacement of its royalty. The one unfailingly 
 silent witness of its downfall surrounded us — the calm 
 waters of the Zuider Zee. 
 
 This sea tells no tales. It brings no message from the 
 villages buried deep beneath its sands. Its rising tides do 
 
206 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 not whisper of that great Forest of Kreyl overwhelmed 
 by the engulfing flood in that terrible thirteenth century, 
 and now petrifying in its ooze. I could but wonder 
 whether another horror of elemental convulsion might 
 not upheave this sunken forest and scatter the gum and 
 resin of its ancient trees as amber on some new-made 
 shore. If ever the great sea be drained, and the project 
 has been long under consideration, the menace to the 
 land will still be as great. Elemental power can frustrate 
 any work of man, and the fearful nights of March I2th, 
 and 13th, of this year demonstrated the futility of depend- 
 ence on the dykes. So long as the German Ocean is 
 subject to a conjunction of northwest winds and high 
 tides, so long as its boisterous waters possess but the 
 narrow outlet of Calais Straits, just so long will it threaten 
 the continuance of the Netherlands as a geographical 
 unit and a geological entity. 
 
 Stavoren's "hour" of royalty was approximately a 
 thousand years long, then its glory departed never to 
 return. In the fourth and fifth century it was flourishing 
 with its gladiatorial shows, its theatres and circus bor- 
 rowed from the Romans. It fraternized by means of 
 reciprocity treaties not only with the Romans, but in due 
 time with Batavians, Danes, Germans, and Franks. In 
 comparison with Stavoren's age, royalty, and ancient 
 glory, Amsterdam is a parvenu. The Hague is a spoiled 
 infant of modern times, even Nymegen, the Little Rome 
 of eastern Gelderland, is a youth of Charlemagne's time. 
 
An Ancient of Days 207 
 
 Rome, the Rome of the Caesars, is Ancient Frisia's con- 
 temporary, her enemy at first, and in the end her stout 
 ally. It seems preeminently fitting that the royal govern- 
 ing house in the Netherlands should trace its descent 
 from her ancient kings ; most fitting that the lions in 
 Friesland's ancient arms should. show as royal lions in 
 the arms of the House of Orange-Nassau. 
 
 We left the lonely town and journeyed for about 
 twenty miles through lonely coastlands that, in the long 
 geological ages and the short Age of Man, have risen and 
 subsided time and time again, that have lain for aeons as 
 sea bottom in order now for a short time, a time depend- 
 ent on the caprice of the ever-threatening North Sea, to 
 show their lone green stretches beyond the protecting 
 dykes. The slow twilight was falling upon a day that 
 had been filled with that wondrous, pensive atmosphere 
 which James calls North Holland's "half-and-half" 
 light. In the distance, beyond the dreary stretch of dyke, 
 a white sail was moving through the tall rush-like grass. 
 There were no sheep, no cattle, no windmills, no water 
 visible to give life and movement to the landscape. The 
 gray arch of sky for one hundred and eighty degrees was 
 unflecked by a bird. Once I saw a stork rise from the 
 marshes and fly low over the green waste ; that was all. 
 But the charm was great because enhanced by Friesland's 
 history: kingly crowns, royal states, princely race — 
 for them all, as for the land itself, this Ancient of Days, 
 "their evening comes apace. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 A FRISIAN PARIS 
 
 The country changed its face on leaving the coastlands 
 for Leeuwarden. Rich farms joined richer farms with 
 every mile that brought us nearer to the Frisian cap- 
 ital. Farmhouses like royal rustic Petits Trianons pro- 
 claimed from their very housetops, gay with rich mosaic 
 tiling, the wealth of their owners. Under the ponderous 
 roof live man and beast. The lush grass grows up to the 
 very doors, and there is no litter about, nothing visible of 
 the usual farm-waste, no straggling paths, no underbrush, 
 no "lean-to" — only one massive dwelling set in a per- 
 fectly ordered grass plot, and surrounded by a perfectly 
 ordered square or rectangle of farm lands, the various 
 fields separated by ditches filled with clear water. 
 
 These rustic mansions, for they are nothing less, are, 
 many of them, beautiful in coloring, although bare of 
 setting. There are few trees, and not many flowers, 
 about them. I saw one which may serve as a sample of 
 the colors used. It was of maroon-colored brick. Its 
 ponderous roof, with low-hanging eaves, was gray- 
 thatched, the thatch as sleek as an antelope's hide. 
 About the huge dormer windows was set a border, perhaps 
 four feet wide, of beautifully glazed red and yellow tiles. 
 
 208 
 
A Frisian Paris 209 
 
 This tiling is highly ornamental, and used for the better 
 class of houses. 
 
 In the fields, knee-deep in grass, a thousand cattle 
 were gathering in groups near the ditches. It was milk- 
 ing time, and everywhere we saw, as we saw afterwards 
 in Gelderland, the originals of those paintings by Anton 
 Mauve, that make their appeal through their subjectiv- 
 ity. The men in blue Hnen jackets, of which blue Mauve 
 makes almost as much as Vermeer of Delft of his pre- 
 dilection for that color, were busy with the cattle. The 
 great splendid creatures yielded their marvellous flow 
 of milk from such distended udders that sixty quarts a 
 day seemed no longer an "old wife's tale" to us. In 
 point of fact, I was ready to accept any tale of Dutch 
 fecundity and production, after seeing what we saw all 
 about Leeuwarden which is the chief cattle market of 
 Friesland. Large cans, painted bright blue or red, which 
 hold, I should judge, about fifty gallons, were trundled 
 about on gay little hand-carts from one lovely Holstein 
 group — fit subject for a Paul Potter — to another, until 
 all the clusters in the galaxy of this very real Milky 
 Way had been visited. Then the carts were trundled 
 off to the, many times, distant farmhouse. The cattle 
 kept together for a while, ruminating in their twilight 
 way; then, snuffing up the sweet, moist evening air, 
 they bent their noble heads to the deep pasturage, and 
 began again that strange natural process by which man 
 is helped to live. 
 
 14 
 
210 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 It was something of a shock, so far as a sentiment for 
 what James designates rurality is concerned, to find 
 ourselves, after an hour and a half of this country idyl, 
 in a modern hotel 'bus, rattling through the brilliantly- 
 lighted streets of Leeuwarden at half-past eight. The 
 jar of the shock was comfortably lessened upon our en- 
 trance into a stately old inn, ablaze with lights, and our 
 taking possession of bedrooms that were as ample as a 
 modern drawing-room, and infinitely more comfortable. 
 The effect of the shock was further diminished by a 
 substantial late dinner. Somehow, the Dutch landlords 
 manage to have a most satisfactory dinner served at any 
 hour of the evening, not, of course, a la carte. The dining- 
 room recalled those seen in Italian hotels some twenty 
 years ago. It was high-studded, twenty feet perhaps, 
 panelled from floor to ceiling, and severely plain but rich 
 in its furnishings. The windows were glass doors, open- 
 ing upon a small but charming garden. 
 
 We went out afterwards into the gay brightness of the 
 streets. There we found regular boulevardiers and houle- 
 vardieres, together with crowds of Frisian beaux and 
 belles, promenading, chatting, laughing, and enjoying 
 themselves generally. The rows of shops along the 
 principal streets bordering canals were brilliantly lighted 
 and filled with attractive wares. The city was doubly il- 
 luminated, for the bright lights were everywhere reflected 
 in the black waters of the canals. The life, the move- 
 ment, the gayety, the broad streets, the shaded avenues, 
 
A Frisian Paris 211 
 
 the many gas jets — all reminded us of Paris. It is the 
 only reminder, seen as we saw it, in all the Netherlands; 
 for the crowds of sombre mood that pace of an evening up 
 and down the dimly-lighted narrow Lange Poten at The 
 Hague, and the stream of stolid elbowers along Kalver 
 Straat in Amsterdam, have nothing in common with the 
 gay promenaders in Friesland's capital. It is a minia- 
 ture Paris, and its women are so pretty! James said he 
 had seen more handsome women in one half hour that 
 evening than he had seen during our entire winter in 
 The Hague. 
 
 To the glitter and brightness of the shop windows, the 
 lighted streets and the illumined waters, add the gleam, 
 beneath dainty lace caps, of the rich silver and gold 
 helmets that crown the lovely pink and white of girls' 
 merry faces, and the flash of jewelled gold chains that 
 cross the smooth foreheads from one temple to the other; 
 then one may form an idea of the species of spectacular 
 transformation to which our ideas were subjected after 
 leaving poor, forsaken Stavoren, only to find this Little 
 Paris in the far north of the Netherlands! 
 
 We went to Leeuwarden with two objects in view: to 
 visit the famous Frisian Museum of Antiquities, and 
 to see my Great Tower, an etching of which hangs 
 above my book shelves at home; a reproduction of it 
 may be seen in the frontispiece. 
 
 The Frisian Museum of Antiquities is sui generis. It, 
 
212 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 together with the museum at Middelburg on the island 
 of Walcheren, form a record of the history of this land 
 from the time of the Caesars until the present. Two 
 such collections, well studied, are worth more as his- 
 torical object lessons than all the other museums put 
 together throughout the Netherlands. The museum in 
 Leeuwarden is alone worth the journey from The 
 Hague thither. Ancient Dutch living-rooms — the Hin- 
 deloopen rooms — furnished in their gloriously stiff 
 manner, memorial stones, wood-carvings, coins and 
 medals, old prints, an unequalled collection of Old 
 Delft porcelains, ancient costumes, antique bronzes, sil- 
 ver and gold work, and Roman antiquities present an 
 object lesson which cannot be learned elsewhere. 
 
 In all these we read History written in capital letters : 
 the history of conquest, the history of defense, the his- 
 tory of the home, the history of the altar, the history of 
 every industry connected with the land, the history of 
 men and women, patriots all. This land has had its stone 
 age, its bronze and iron age, its age of commerce with 
 Rome, with Merovingians and Carlovingians, with Anglo- 
 Saxons, with Germans, with the Franks. In compara- 
 tively modern times it had its Spanish occupation, and 
 in the last century its French yoke. 
 
 It would seem, from some of the contents of this mu- 
 seum, that a Dutchman has continued to memorialize 
 himself from time immemorial, and not only himself, 
 but his deeds, his profession, his trade, his seasons of 
 
A Frisian Paris 213 
 
 feast, his times of famine, his birth, his betrothal, his 
 marriage plus his silver wedding, his archery-club fines, 
 his anniversaries, his town, his province and country. 
 He goes farther; he memorializes the Fathers of the City 
 Council, the meeting of the Diet, the crucial moments 
 in his country's history, his nobility, his workingmen, 
 the very beggars on his streets, his own emotions, when 
 they come to the surface, his fire-engines and conflagra- 
 tions, and the introduction of his city-water. He me- 
 morializes the dead, and, doubtless, would memorialize 
 his own death if he could. For aught I know, he makes 
 provision for this in his will. It is a national trait that 
 may be characterized as a national "fad," antedating 
 the tulip, poultry, and antiquity fads. 
 
 The expression of this memorializing mania may be 
 found all over the Netherlands in two forms: in the so- 
 called corporation-pieces and portraits of the individual, 
 and in the striking of medals and the coining of pennin- 
 gen. These "pennies" are generally in copper, but are 
 found in silver and gold, as well as in lead, tin, and paper. 
 Even the monks of olden times had their "travel-penny" 
 — a kind of free circular Cook's excursion ticket, I 
 take it. 
 
 The siege of Alkmaar was memorialized in tin and 
 lead pennies; the siege of Leyden in paper. Haarlem's 
 memorial bears this inscription : Haarlem besieged by the 
 tyrant Alva has in her great need coined this money. 
 
 On a "Beggars' Penny" we find: In all things loyal to 
 
214 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 the King, even to the carrying of a beggar's wallet. On a 
 "Carpenters' Penny": 
 
 'Josephus was a carpenter mild. 
 
 This penny is in the carpenter s guild. 
 
 But for the land's Greatest — its artists and scholars 
 and men of deeds, no, there are too few. One there is, 
 memorializing the monument erected to Rembrandt, 
 which bears this inscription: Among them all he shone re- 
 splendent. The Dutch vision is restricted to the objec- 
 tive, and the objective focusses the Dutchman and the 
 interests that touch him personally. 
 
 Take the Guild Pennies alone; they show the indus- 
 tries of the land. These were generally of copper, and 
 given to the brotherhood as proof of their membership. 
 The following list in the Museum will show conclusively 
 that ancient Frisia was in the very vanguard of indus- 
 trialism before the Pilgrim Fathers ever thought of 
 seeking positions in the workshops of Leyden: Archers, 
 butchers, bakers, smiths, coopers, knifemakers, carpen- 
 ters, surgeons, lockmakers, barbers, shoemakers, tailors, 
 hoodmakers, cofFee-pourers, hour-glass makers, trek- 
 schuit-skippers, ferrymen, linen-weavers, sheep-shearers, 
 skippers, ship-carpenters, turf-carriers, button-makers, 
 masons. 
 
 In a church at Hempen the panels of the pulpit are 
 ornamented with carvings representing these so-called 
 
A Frisian Paris 215 
 
 " peasants' coats-of-arms." It becomes a matter of socio- 
 logical interest and question, when one sees side by side 
 with the arms of these industrial noblemen the escutch- 
 eon of some noble family with an engrafted Lily of 
 France and the inference, which is, in one case at least, 
 expressed in words: They toil not neither do they spin. 
 
 But how some one must have toiled and spun to clothe 
 these ancient Frisians in their almost literal cloth of 
 gold! The costumes of the Spanish occupation are 
 marvels in their way, and an ironical commentary on 
 Carlyle's Sartor Resartus. Of the most ancient Frisian 
 costume nothing remains in the dress of the people of 
 to-day. Free and independent Frisia,when once it had 
 felt the yoke of Saxon and Burgundian, clothed itself in 
 sombre black and white, allowing only the long gold 
 chains for ornament. 
 
 Friesland lost her independence in 1498. At that time, 
 upon the appearance of Saxons and Burgundians, the 
 red and brown in the costumes gave place to black — 
 velvet cap with feather, close-fitting black waistcoat, 
 heavy gold chains on the breast, long black silk breeches, 
 and black pointed shoes. The women, too, were in 
 black with girdles and bracelets of gold. About this 
 time there came into fashion those voluminous balloon- 
 like trousers, bloomers in earnest, gathered at the knee, 
 of which the Urk fisherman's nether garments must be 
 lineal descendants. Once when I was leaving Amster- 
 dam some of these fishers, with yards of drapery for 
 
216 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 ordinary trousers, were with me on the small boat. I 
 could well understand, after seeing these garments at 
 close range, that the clergy of old took the field against 
 the excessive amplitude of the same and threatened 
 Heaven's vengeance upon the wearers. The preaching, 
 however, was in vain. On good authority it is stated 
 that the Water Beggars of Zeeland — the terror of the 
 Spaniards on the sea — were thus costumed. 
 
 Upon the Saxon followed the Spanish occupation, and 
 all was changed; and what a change! The Spanish 
 stamp upon the Netherlands remains indelible. It may 
 still be seen on the towers, steeples and gateways, and 
 in the costumes of Friesland and Zeeland, including 
 Zeeland-Flanders. One is tempted, as one stands 
 before the Night Watch in the Ryks at Amsterdam, or 
 the masterpieces of Frans Hals in Haarlem, and watches 
 the play of light and color in silk and velvet, cord and 
 tassels, gold chains and rings set with costly iewels, when 
 one sees the flash of emerald and ruby, the glitter of 
 gold, the sheen of silk, the bloom of Utrecht velvet, the 
 lustre of pearl, the delicacy of richest lace, the long 
 gloves exquisitely embroidered — a sign among the 
 gentry of "non-activity," to ask: Jf'ithout the Spaniard, 
 would there have been a Rembrandt? For all these ma- 
 terial things of life helped to give us the Master. 
 
 The "finds" throughout the province have been many 
 and rich. The coins found show very clearly the his- 
 torical strata of the land: Gallic, Roman, An_g:lo-Saxon, 
 
A Frisian Paris 217 
 
 Norman, German, Spanish, Republic of Holland, French, 
 and now the United Provinces of the Netherlands. They 
 have been found by the hundreds, I dare say, by the 
 thousands. The terror of invasion vcas brought home to 
 us when we saw these treasures, hall-marks of a two- 
 thousand years of existence, that have been exhumed 
 from the grounds of long-fallen monasteries and castles, 
 from old mounds, ditches, from morass and heath, and 
 from beneath the roots of old trees. The oldest of these 
 dates from 200 B.C. 
 
 Before leaving the subject of the Museum, I must 
 record one laughable, if irritating, incident. We were 
 looking at the masterpieces of the collection: two large 
 salvers of beaten silver, marvellous both in design 
 and workmanship. The subjects are taken from "hea- 
 thendom," as the Dutch express it, and the work seems 
 to antedate — although this is an inference of my own — 
 the world-renowned Hildesheim "find," the Roman 
 silver service now in Berlin. 
 
 These dishes are labelled in the catalogue: Artistic 
 dishes of beaten silver for which an American has offered 
 in vain 100,000 florins. Note the in vain! Upon see- 
 ing this James groaned outwardly, and I inwardly. The 
 American dollar has become, even to these far-away 
 cousins in Friesland, the hall-mark of an American. 
 The pity of it! 
 
 After all, the great failing of the Dutch — when I 
 write that word I wonder I dare call it that, knowing 
 
218 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 their wonderful history — is their self-sufficiency. Yet, 
 curiously enough, their defect, which is a dyke against 
 progressive ideas, is a wellspring of national art. I 
 quote one of their own, who, speaking of the few lesser 
 works of Roelofs, Israels, Mesdag, Bosboom, Tom, and 
 others, which hang on the walls of the small gallery con- 
 nected with the museum, says: "It is our sea, our land, 
 our cattle, our thatch, our town, our winter, our water, and 
 our light which is represented here." 
 
 The italics are the Dutchman's, not mine, and give 
 better than an exegetical volume on the subject an in- 
 sight into the national weakness which is the strength of 
 Dutch art and Dutch life. 
 
 One reahzes something of the departed glory of this 
 ancient land when one sees the jetsam gathered in so 
 unique a place as the Frisian Museum. We realize, too, 
 what close affiliations, historically, the English race has 
 with the ancient Frisian. The Anglo-Saxon dialect is its 
 next of kin. There is a little couplet that runs: 
 
 Good butter and good cheese 
 
 Is good English and good Fries. 
 
 This is perfect English and perfect Frisian. 
 
 I made two delightful "finds" of my own: a delightful 
 word, gissing, with a verb gissen, to guess, to conjecture! 
 A fine patent of ancient nobility for our Yankee "I 
 guess"; never again should it be tabooed in pohte con- 
 
A Frisian Paris 219 
 
 versation. My other " find " took me into the region of 
 American slang, and showed me the phrase as legitimate 
 heir of good old Dutch, or Frisian! There was a curious 
 word, bons, used in connection with a Guild Penny. Trac- 
 ing it, I found that de bons krijgen was to be discharged, 
 in other words — to get the bounce! ! 
 
 James says if only it had been "grand bounce," the 
 "find" would be perfect. He is too critical! 
 
 The famous Chancellerie, just around the corner from 
 the Museum, seems to emphasize the royalty of this 
 ancient capital of Friesland. Its fafade carries all the 
 emblems of majesty — stone lions, stone escutcheons, 
 the shafts, that one may see duplicated on the tomb of 
 William of Orange in the New Church at Delft, and 
 
 — the hated name of Philip II., King of Spain! 
 
 But apart from that, and a glimpse of the interior of 
 the Catholic Church at Sunday morning service, where 
 we saw, shining between the pillars, the silver-gilt casques 
 of the women and girls, Leeuwarden seemed to us a 
 child of the New Time, rather than of the Old; and all 
 its grand boulevards in miniature, its large Cattle Mar- 
 ket — the centre of the agricultural interests in Friesland 
 
 — its promenades and broad water ways bear the stamp 
 of the "capital," where one looks in vain for the Ancient 
 Frisia that is found within the walls of its Museum. 
 
 The ramparts of Leeuwarden are very beautiful; they 
 have been converted into shady promenades and border 
 
220 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 the ancient moat, the Noorder and Wester Singel. Here 
 on the Noorder Singel you will find my Great Tower of 
 Leeuwarden, and its double in the motionless waters. It 
 leans a little away from them, as if fearing to see too 
 much of its huge bulk in such an unstable firmament. 
 It is the old belfry of the church of St. Vitus, long since 
 destroyed; it is the Hofsterkerk; it is the Old hove; it is 
 one of the most ancient landmarks in all the land, and 
 tradition has it that centuries ago the sea washed its 
 base. The curator of the Museum told me that the 
 authentic date of its erection is 1 517 — the year of 
 the Reformation. It is an unfinished brick tower of 
 enormous bulk; the ornamentations in wrought iron are 
 noticeably fine, and so delicate that one can but wonder 
 who designed these artistic tendrils that creep up and 
 about the giant mass of brick much as ivy finds its way, 
 upreaching, on an old tower. 
 
 I saw it one Sunday morning "in the mists beyond the 
 Zuider Zee," and wondered to find myself so close to a 
 realized ideal! I shall always connect its ponderous mass 
 and other-worldly surroundings with the Pied Piper of 
 Hamelin, for I never saw so many children gather around 
 me as flocked about me on my short tour of inspection 
 around the Oldhove. I have no idea what attracted the 
 first dozen or two, unless it was the fact of my being a 
 foreigner, at once recognized as such, and immediately 
 catalogued with the strange animals in the Zoo. But, 
 at the first corner of the tower, I noticed there were be- 
 
A Frisian Paris 221 
 
 tween twenty and thirty. As I rounded the next corner, 
 I stopped to count, laughing at them the while; they 
 numbered fifty-five. As I doubled the third corner the 
 noise of little feet behind me shuffling over the pavement 
 was like the trailing of heavy brushwood over stones. 
 I counted again; there were between seventy and eighty! 
 I completed my circuit of the great tower with an ever- 
 increasing following. When I stopped to look at some 
 detail of the tower, they stopped. When I moved on, 
 they, with one accord, moved on too. When I smiled, 
 they smiled, and, gathering about me, looked up into 
 my face as if wondering how I came there. 
 
 Indeed, I found myself wondering how I came there; 
 for the ancient tower, the gathering mists, the misting 
 waters in which the reflection of this Oldhove began .to be 
 dimmed, the green ramparts, and the children flocking so 
 close about me and looking up into my eyes with all the 
 curiosity of youth beneath the old, old tower of Leeu- 
 warden, that had stood there, unheeding youth and 
 age, for so many centuries, all served to dull reality and 
 induce a conviction of unreality as to time, place, and 
 personality. 
 
 James, appearing round the corner whither he had 
 gone to get a cab in case of rain, brought me into the 
 Actual again. His amazement at my following was un- 
 bounded; but he did the only thing proper in the circum- 
 stances: put his hand in his pocket, and, ignoring the 
 hundreds of hands upreached to catch the expected rain 
 
222 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 of pennies, gave a bystander some money to buy cakes 
 for the "crowd," as he called it. It began to rain most 
 opportunely, and from the cab window I took my last 
 look of the Oldhove and of the children who, gathering 
 close about the man, James' almoner of prospective 
 cakes, never once looked at the departing foreigner — 
 and that was so like children! 
 
 "Well, Persis, you've had your cake, too; are you 
 satisfied with your Great Tower of Leeuwarden ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes, James," I said, but sighed as I answered. 
 
 "What's that for ?" he said, leaning to look into my face. 
 
 "I don't exactly know; but I think I've had enough of 
 the Great Tower for ever and ever — those children — " 
 
 James patted the back of my hand. "Yes, I know, 
 Persis. It's time for us to be leaving Leeuwarden. I 
 should get the blues here just as quick as I get them in 
 Paris. I don't feel at home in this semi-capital, and 
 with all its fine streets and grand houses, it's the only 
 place in the Netherlands I've been near getting home- 
 sick ; — I want to get back across the Zuider Zee." 
 
 "So do I, James; let's go on the next train." 
 
 He took out his watch. "It starts in half an hour; 
 can you be ready?" 
 
 "Try me and see," I replied joyfully, and bade the 
 driver hurry back to the hotel. 
 
 It is, perhaps, unnecessary to add that we caught the 
 train. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 BY STILL WATERS 
 
 Gouda, Utrecht, Amersjoort 
 
 We wanted to see the other Lake Country of the 
 Netherlands that lies southwest of Leeuwarden; we 
 wanted to see Kampen and its gate, one of the oldest in 
 the country, but we knew that in six weeks, at most, 
 midsummer would be upon us and the time to enjoy 
 the Netherlands is in the spring and June. Then if 
 one travel by canal, vaart, or river, he may avoid fetid 
 waters made tepid by the August sun, as well as all the 
 sights and sounds incident to water travel along the 
 highways on which a whole population lives and moves 
 and has its being in a very literal sense. The canals are 
 the dumping grounds for the inhabitants of kof and tjalk, 
 who keep house on them, and use the canal, or river, 
 for both front and back dooryard. Everything of waste 
 goes "overboard." Add to this condition of things the 
 fact that the dwellers on land utilize the waters, that 
 wash their very thresholds, for all domestic purposes, 
 and one can readily understand that a great portion of 
 the Netherlands should be seen, as we saw it, in order 
 to hold the land as a charming permanence of recol- 
 lection and remembrance. 
 
 223 
 
224 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 We found we must give up some plans that were dear 
 to us if we were to spend much of the glorious prime of 
 the warm season in Zeeland, and to see what was of 
 particular interest to James: the great Rhine country 
 of the Low Lands in its entire length and breadth. To 
 accomplish this in the time at our disposal, we found, 
 much against our inclination, that we must make use of 
 travel by land as well as by water. 
 
 Oom Kees, or Uncle Corney, our first mate, an out and 
 out old sea-dog and a genuine Zeelander, kept telling us 
 we were missing so much in spending our time in the 
 "country," as he called with some contempt every acre 
 of solid ground out of Zeeland, and the Captain kept 
 writing us such cordial notes of encouragement to leave 
 Kampen and Drenthe for "another time" and be off to 
 the sea islands and their June glory, that we finally 
 yielded to the pressure brought to bear on us and directed 
 Oom Kees and his nephew-captain to leave us at Enkhui- 
 zen, and take The Broomstick by the shortest cut to 
 Nymegen in Gelderland. We purposed to meet them at 
 that place. Moreover there were Ben Hardon and the 
 girls to be considered. Five minds can never be as two, 
 and James and I knew that we could no longer follow 
 our way in everything, if the comfort and satisfaction of 
 our guests were to be considered. 
 
 We had planned another trip which we had to give up 
 — for that time: to sail from Leyden again by the way of 
 the Old Rhine to its junction with the Gouw, and follow 
 
By Still Waters 225 
 
 that along its length to Gouda. Our Dutch friends told 
 us it was one of the most beautiful water ways in Holland. 
 But we had to compromise and take Gouda in the usual 
 way: that is, as other people have taken it, by rail. The 
 country all about it is uninteresting, and an anti-climax 
 after the beautiful meadows and farms of North Friesland. 
 
 The waters of the Yssel at Gouda are bright and clear- 
 flowing. In this queer land where a river may run 
 both ways, bifurcating without a watershed and appar- 
 ently without complicating nature, the Yssel is a good 
 servant to both the Old Rhine and the Maas. There 
 is one portion of the\ town that these waters brighten 
 which is like a scene depicted in some stained glass 
 window within a mediaeval church. It is this special 
 locality that one makes the journey by rail to see: the 
 Market-Place, the group of houses near by and the 
 Groote Kerk which they surround. 
 
 Of all the innumerable groote kerks in the Netherlands 
 the Groote Kerk of Gouda seems to be the grootest. It 
 is so great that you cannot find it for a while. This is 
 literally true. To be sure, one can see the tower if one 
 can stand off at the distance of a mile; a portion of it may 
 be seen at certain angles of vantage from diflFerent and 
 distant parts of the town; but the church cannot be seen. 
 
 There are two or three approaches all of which lead 
 round and about and anywhere except to a point from 
 which one can see this Groote Kerk. One wonders at 
 last if some necromancer architect built it only that some 
 
 15 
 
226 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 small portion might be seen in an eluding perspective: 
 a window, a chapel, an entrance beneath the belfry tower. 
 
 "As a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings;" 
 that was my thought as I stood in the curiously irregular 
 passage which is called Achter de Kerk, Behind the Church. 
 The Groote Kerk of Gouda seems to brood the little 
 houses that have settled so thick and close about it. 
 Their tiny ancient gables, not one of which is more than 
 twelve feet wide, lean to one another and are hung with 
 heavy ivy. All about the church there are tiny squares 
 and passages and courts and curving lanes, a willow 
 green canal, a bridge, a small terrace set round with 
 these mediaeval dwellings, all of which are overshadowed 
 by the ponderous mass of the Groote Kerk. One realizes, 
 as one walks around it, what a sense of protection it 
 must have given throughout the centuries to the dwellers 
 in the shadow of its walls. 
 
 But it is when one steps within, that one pauses in 
 amazement. The great round arches, the circular pillars, 
 the barrelled vaulting, the magnificent stained glass 
 windows stamp this interior as a national monument 
 One finds, not the house of worship, but the Pantheon of 
 the Netherlands. One must go to Milan, to Antwerp, to 
 see the equal of the forty windows. All this land is in 
 them: its armorial bearings, its municipal arms, ancient 
 Gouda with her device, per aspera ad astra, the siege of 
 Leyden and of Haarlem. We may reconstruct from the 
 former the city and its ramparts, its gates and walls, the 
 
By Still Waters 227 
 
 gathering of its citizens and troops for defense. Haarlem, 
 also, is here, its towers, its portcullises, its ships and 
 shallow surrounding water — a window all smoked topaz, 
 burnt amber, and chalcedony. It is a rare example of 
 the tints used before the general introduction of stained 
 glass colored like an artist's palette. These two score 
 windows show forth sacred history, as well as profane, 
 and afford examples of the most curious pantheistic 
 tendencies. We find in them dogs, swans, birds, fruits, 
 flowers, Jerusalem, the clear blue of foreign skies. Catho- 
 lic rites, St. Peter's keys, the keys of Leyden, and Christ 
 driving the money-changers out of the Temple. This 
 last Is a gift of William the Silent. As I looked at it, ' 
 it seemed as if he had spoken from out the centuries: 
 "I, being dead, salute thee." 
 
 This church, like many others in the Netherlands, is 
 undergoing a partial restoration; stones, brick, mortar, 
 scaffolding, pulleys obstruct the views. But, mutilated 
 as the interior is, there is enough of perfection left to 
 prove to us how great was the power of art in the middle 
 of the sixteenth century, how fine the work in glass, not 
 duplicated in the Low Countries, of the two artist 
 brothers, Wouter and Dirck Crabeth, and to show us, 
 also, something of the departed glory of the Nether- 
 lands. 
 
 The market-place is far from being a commonplace 
 square for traffic; it is delightfully uncommon. Where 
 else would you look for a perky little Stadhuis as Dutch 
 
228 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 as it can well be, yet flourishing all over with a Renaissance 
 that brings a smile to your face ? Where else can you 
 find a meat-market beneath just such a little Town Hall ? 
 Where else can you see a flock of Dutch school children 
 ornamenting a Renaissance outside staircase, and playing 
 tag all over the steps ? Where else can you see a Weigh 
 House with such a beautiful piece of sculpture on its 
 facade that it could be mistaken for a Town Hall ? 
 
 Gouda is nothing if not compact, and the life and 
 interest of the town centre in its market-place. The 
 waters of the Gouw and the Yssel touch its streets into 
 a kind of placid brightness, and in the midst its Groote 
 Kerk broods throughout the centuries over the ancient 
 gabled houses above which it looms. 
 
 James and I came to the conclusion that those 
 who attempt to see every market-place, every town hall, 
 every museum, every church, "old" and "great," in the 
 Netherlands, must in the end find themselves subject to 
 a martyrdom fully as tedious, if not quite as exacting, 
 as that to which those who suffered through the In- 
 quisition were subjected. We did not attempt this, 
 nor did we wish to, and, as a result, we saw certain 
 things in towns and cities which characterized the places 
 so perfectly, that they remain with us in memory as 
 individual: Leyden and its Rhine and Zyl Gate, for 
 instance, or Alkmaar and the approach to Its Weigh 
 House. So with Utrecht. We went to see the curves 
 and sharp-angled bends and reaches of two great 
 
BT STILL WATERS 
 GOUDA 
 
'JlJiis 
 
By Still Waters 229 
 
 canals theOudeand Nieuwe Gracht. James calls them 
 " double-deckers." 
 
 Just here I may be permitted a word or two about the 
 general plan of Dutch cities and towns. M. Havard 
 has set it forth in his chapter on Amsterdam; but as I 
 have seen for myself, and been able to compare one city 
 and town with another, I may, perhaps, be allowed to 
 express what I found in my own way, and without refer- 
 ence to him. They have a general plan owing to their 
 middle-aged heredity. The Groote Kerk or Oude Kerk, 
 the Market-Place, the Town Hall, the Weigh House and 
 a big canal form the nucleus. If the town hall is not on 
 the market-place it is generally within a stone's throw. 
 Religion, Justice and, I will use James' word just here, 
 "Grub" are the factors of the Dutch civic trinity that 
 extend the hand to one another. 
 
 This nucleus was in olden times walled for defense; a 
 moat surrounded the walls. A water-gate gave entrance 
 into the town, and the canal that led to the market-place. 
 A drawbridge — and by "drawbridge" the Dutch under- 
 stand the bridges that are hoisted, the others are the 
 " swingbridges " — connected the town with the country- 
 side. As the city or town increased in area and population, 
 the moats, canals, and ramparts became streets. The 
 changes that the centuries wrought in the development 
 of a city came to be almost literally reflected in its inland 
 waters. A voorhurg, or fortification before the town 
 walls, was added; that, too, must have a wall. After two 
 
230 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 or three generations, the city, having outgrown its limits, 
 took in the voorburg, wall and all. At last we find in the 
 heart of the present Amsterdam the voorburgiuah! Now 
 and then a canal, or a moat, was filled in, and the trace 
 lost save for the name which endures. 
 
 As a result of this necessary and systematic evolution, 
 we get a Dutch fortification nomenclature, technical in 
 its way, to serve for the identification of streets at the 
 present time. Take for a most perfect example, old 
 Amsterdam. Its heart was the Damrak — a commercial 
 water way — that, with the Oude Kerk, Stadhuis, Markt, 
 and City Scales (perhaps the very ones from which Rem- 
 brandt van Ryn saw and sketched the ruined tower of 
 the Stadhuis), formed the nucleus of the city. This may 
 serve for prototype of all the others. About this centre 
 we find to-day the great water thoroughfare of the Oude 
 Zyds Voorhurgwal, the ancient barbacan-wall;the fiUed-in 
 Nieuwe Zyds Voorhurgwal, the modern barbacan-wall — 
 one sees this, as it was, in the illustration facing page 169 ; 
 the Oude Schans, or old entrenchment ; the grachts, or 
 moats; the singels, or outer walls ; the vest, or surrounding 
 wall. In these words you find the epitome of a Dutch city, 
 or large town. Add to this civic glossary kade, quay, vaart, 
 passage (water), veer, a ferry, haven, and poort, a gate — 
 whether water, cow, abbey, or prison; throw in a fish- 
 bridge, a butter-ditto, and a ^or^«-i^«rj-, or corn-exchange, 
 and with this vocabulary you can find your way about 
 any city and town in the Netherlands. I forget — the 
 
By Still Waters 23 1 
 
 word picture is not complete without a molen-slop, or 
 mill-lane. 
 
 The characteristic of one city may be its market-place, 
 of another its stadhuis, of a third its canals, of still another 
 its singels, of a fifth its poort, but with every year and the 
 work of the Iconoclast Time, the gates are becoming 
 hard to find. We went to Utrecht to see its great Grachts, 
 old and new, and for what remains of its ancient Dom, 
 or cathedral. 
 
 The country about Utrecht was uninteresting compared 
 with what we had seen in the north. It is a great fruit 
 and poultry producing province. No wonder that Mel- 
 chior d' Hondecoeter and his uncle, Weenix, one born in 
 Utrecht and one making his home there for a while, felt 
 the influence of the environment and painted incompa- 
 rable poultry, fruits, and game! But James and I cared 
 little just at that time for these two masters, or even for 
 Jan van Scorel, whose Pilgrims to Jerusalem are all to be 
 seen here. We preferred to linger on Utrecht's famous 
 bridges from which, owing to the sharp-angled bends of 
 the Oude Gracht and Nieuwe Gracht, one obtains the 
 finest views of the imposing cathedral tower. 
 
 We wandered the length of the two Grachts, two 
 principal canals that wind through the city far below the 
 level of the streets; so far, indeed, that there is a subter- 
 ranean city of shops and warehouses beneath the pave- 
 ments, the doorways of which open on a level with the 
 canal. Here and there a tree is seen springing in all its 
 
232 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 fresh green from the city's basement! A curious effect, 
 a "double-decked" arrangement as James said, and one 
 not to be dupHcated, of a city above ground, a city below 
 ground, a canal at the bottom of everything serving as 
 water way for both, and upper and lower town connected 
 by flights of shaky wooden steps! 
 
 I know of no more imposing and effective grouping 
 than is afforded by these bridges, canals, fish-market 
 and old cathedral tower as seen from the Stadhuis-Bridge. 
 If one looks below, one may see beneath the black arch 
 the swans floating on the shadowed water. But in this 
 city of a hundred thousand inhabitants, one has to seek 
 far if he would find anything ancient beyond the Grachts, 
 the Dom, and the aged-looking Buurkerk. 
 
 This patriarchal bishopric of Utrecht clasps hands 
 with the German Hildesheim, far away across the heaths, 
 on a spur of the Harz Mountains. The same emperors 
 ruled them, the same faith animated their artists in 
 wood and stone. Hildesheim, after a thousand years, 
 still had its famous rosebush and its antique bronzes 
 that Bishop Bernward, the artist-souled shepherd, left 
 as a beautiful legacy of Christian faith in works. Utrecht, 
 after thirteen hundred years, has a cathedral tower 
 several hundred years old to mark the spot where stood 
 the first church of which WilHbrodus was made bishop. 
 In the worn pavement of the choir we find the two small 
 stones, under which lie the hearts of two German Em- 
 perors. You may find the spot by the double-headed 
 eagles cut in those stones. One thinks a thought or two. 
 
By Still Waters 233 
 
 in such surroundings, of pa<:c and fallen glory. A walk 
 in the cloisters showed as some very beautiful detail 
 of sculpture, and gave us a glimpse of what is rarely 
 seen, in the architecture of the Netherlands: the flying 
 buttresses, in the present case with a sHght ornamenta- 
 tion, which enhances, without obscuring, the beauty of 
 their curving grace. 
 
 The tower still stands, one of the few finished ones in 
 the land, strong in its massive strength, and fine in its 
 noble proportions. The nave is gone, destroyed by a 
 great wind in the seventeenth century, but the apse 
 remains, and there we saw in the enormous yet deli- 
 cately fascicled pillars, crowned with varied and beauti- 
 fully carved capitals, an intimation of the departed 
 grandeur of the perfect whole. 
 
 "I don't understand the Dutch!" James exclaimed, 
 as we sat in the one-horse car, and were trundled with a 
 fierce clanging of bells under and through the fine arch 
 upon which rests the noble tower. "With their love of 
 country and their pride in its art, why don't they pre- 
 serve the monuments that are left from desecration ? 
 The idea of running a horse-car under that pretty nearly 
 sublime archway! It's on a par with the belitthng of 
 their groote and oude kerks by plastering their sides 
 with a lot of miserable little tenements and shops, like 
 mud-swallows' nests against a barn. You can't find the 
 beauty of half the architectural lines because they are 
 hidden by these pygmy monstrosities. Look how they 
 permit desecration in other and unmentionable ways! 
 
234 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 There should be a state law against it. It just goes to 
 prove what I am constantly feeling, that the Dutch lack, 
 as a nation, a certain delicacy of intuition that prevents 
 among them a comprehension of the Ideal. When will 
 they wake up to the fact that they are too self-sufficient ? " 
 
 This was a long speech for James, and I knew, by that 
 same token, that his very soul was tried within him. I 
 agreed with all his sentiments to which he gave such 
 emphatic expression. 
 
 "Talk about the Iconoclasts!" I responded, as the 
 Dom Tower dodged from view behind some small 
 houses; "there is just as much iconoclasm now in the 
 way they neglect their works of art, or demean them 
 by such parasitic nuisances. I'd like to have a general 
 house-of-worship cleaning throughout the Netherlands. 
 Perhaps then a lover of the beautiful might enjoy these 
 noble monuments of a noble worship without a feeling 
 of disgust at every turn of a wall or cloister." 
 
 Continuing this righteous and grumbling duet, we got 
 out at the Cattle Bridge, and paid a visit — not an 
 unusual occurrence — to the old men and women, the 
 city's charges, who go to their long home from out the 
 walls of a former dwelling for nobles! This old patri- 
 cian building is now a Home for the Aged. It is a pleas- 
 ure to see the care with which these old people are 
 surrounded. They were having their four-o'clock coffee 
 and bread when we were there. The whole place was 
 Immaculate; the kitchen a study in shining pewter. 
 
By Still Waters 236 
 
 Above, the comfortable beds were curtained in snowy 
 white, thus insuring privacy to each occupant of the 
 dormitory, that may once have been a nobleman's ban- 
 queting hall for the Spanish roisterers of the time of 
 Charles the Fifth. 
 
 On our short trip from Utrecht to Amersfoort I found 
 that James was impatient to be upon the water, and 
 pace — if such a dignified word can be used in this con- 
 nection — once more the unpretending deck of The 
 Broomstick. He was actually homesick for that green 
 boat and its crew! He had learned half his Dutch from 
 Oom Kees as he smoked a sociable pipe with him at 
 the tiller. I, too, had a longing to see the cozy cabin 
 once more, although I had been absent from it but a 
 few days, to give my frugal orders to Neeltje, and to 
 make acquaintance with the adopted cur that James had 
 christened Lump, which is good German for ragamuffin, 
 scoundrel, or scamp, as one may select. James said he 
 was all three, and deserved the name if ever a dog did. 
 
 But, despite our longings, we were bound to visit 
 Amersfoort, if only for a day. We could hardly be said 
 to have been through the Gates of the Netherlands, if 
 we had omitted its Koppelpoort, or Water-Gate. More- 
 over, it has its tower. Tower of old St. Mary's, all that is 
 left of a great church. It still stands beside the sluggish 
 waters of the Langengracht that drags its lazy length 
 from one end of the town to the other. 
 
236 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 Amersfoort, taken as a whole, is not beautiful, not 
 attractive; but there are three portions of it which, 
 once seen, remain in the memory as indelible pictures 
 of incomparable charm. Follow the Langengracht past 
 the many private footbridges and their miniature port- 
 cullises, locked against strangers, until you are fortu- 
 nate enough to find one unbarred. As quickly as pos- 
 sible, poach on that special preserve and enjoy one of 
 the loveliest sights in the whole land — all the more 
 enjoyable because it is a stolen glimpse of paradise. 
 Before you winds the narrow canal, shaded by trees on 
 both sides, hedged with bushes, walled with bright gar- 
 dens; it is as green as beryl from the reflected foliage. 
 On your right, and very near you, the most perfect 
 example of Gothic architecture in the country. Our 
 Dear Lady Tower, rises three hundred and twelve feet 
 above the green waters. It seems to me that with these 
 two statements enough is said. The detail of low, 
 crowded gables beneath it, of the bloom of hawthorn in 
 the gardens, of the green of lindens and of the flower- 
 set cones of horse-chestnuts at its base, must be left to 
 the imagination. 
 
 The illustration is a composite of two points of view: 
 one glimpse caught from the footbridge over the canal, 
 and one full view from the prosaic precincts of a stable- 
 yard in the town. This composite has been chosen to 
 show something of the canal side, and also the architec- 
 tural beauty in detail which is seen from the stable- 
 yard. To present this view, the idealizing artistic charm 
 
OUR DEAR LADY TOWER 
 AMERSFOORT 
 
By Still Waters 237 
 
 has been sacrificed, as well as absolute accuracy of 
 setting. 
 
 We left the tiny bridge to wander farther to the Binnen 
 Gracht and the West Singel; and afterwards when we 
 returned to it, hoping to have one more look at that 
 perfect tower, the small gate was locked! If it had been 
 possible, I am quite sure the bridge would have been 
 drawn up and the portcullis lowered. "Each man in 
 his castle" is the Dutchman's motto, even if the castle 
 be but a tiny gabled house on the Langengracht of 
 Amersfoort. We turned back to the Binnen Gracht and 
 the West Singel; to The Beck and Monnikkendam — 
 Dam of the Monks. I fancy that was a part of their 
 regular work in the old time, the building of dams to 
 save their lives from a watery grave. 
 
 These four small, but surpassingly beautiful water 
 ways within the town form the arms of a Greek cross. 
 The centre is composed of a bridge and a triangular 
 water-space in lieu of a square. To the left — the left 
 arm of the cross — is the green-arched, narrow canal. 
 The Beck. Spanning it in the near perspective is the 
 Monnikkendam, a lovely gateway with two towers capped 
 with extinguishers like the East Gate of Delft. They 
 are half hidden by the foliage, and suggest their beauty 
 rather than outline it. On the right stretches the Binnen 
 Gracht, and crossing these two at right angles is the 
 West Singel — all of them watery bowers of spring beauty. 
 
 In the truncated angle made by the West Singel and 
 the Binnen Gracht stands a stately house, set in a lawn 
 
238 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 that slopes to the water's edge ; on it a magnificent 
 copper beech spread its bronze shadows. In the fore- 
 ground white hawthorn stood in full bloom, and flush- 
 ing the lawn here and there were great masses of full- 
 blossomed damask-rose rhododendrons. Across the canal, 
 above the dense rounded cones of some pink horse- 
 chestnuts, the huddled roofs of Amersfoort showed their 
 confusion of gables, and, beyond them, rose over all 
 the Gothic reaching grace of Our Dear Lady Tower. 
 
 "You may search the world over for the equal of that 
 'much in little'!" said James. 
 
 When we could leave this spot, we walked on to the 
 Koppelpoort. This gate is shown in the illustration as 
 it stands to-day, and a word of description would de- 
 tract from the truth of the actual. Of the double-walled 
 and many-gated Amersfoort of the Middle Ages, there 
 is but this one relic — this and the Kamperbinnenpoort, 
 which is wedged into the buildings of the town in a 
 manner impossible to get at satisfactorily. 
 
 Long may the Koppelpoort stand to rejoice others from 
 a foreign shore as it rejoiced us! This ancient Water- 
 Gate of Amersfoort saw the birth of the land's greatest 
 patriot, after William of Orange: Van Olden Barneveld. 
 It is not a far cry to that other mediaeval portal, the 
 Gevangenpoort, or Prison Gate, of The Hague, near 
 which he suffered death. Thus, upon the Alpha and 
 Omega of a noble patriot life, these two famous Gates 
 of the Netherlands clasp hands. 
 
WATER GATE AT AMERSFOORT 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE RHINE DAUGHTERS 
 
 It seemed as if we were making acquaintance with a 
 new land on our journey from Amersfoort through eastern 
 Utrecht and Gelderland to Nymegen. We were actually 
 at times upon what might be termed a "height of land" 
 in these Low Lands, where, save for the dunes, an ant- 
 hill is welcomed as a break in the monotony of the sur- 
 face. In point of fact, the triangle of country lying 
 between Amersfoort, Arnhem, and Apeldoorn is the 
 Little Switzerland of the Dutch. Some of the hills are 
 fully three hundred feet high! In this land they are as 
 satisfying to eyes accustomed to the level lowlands as 
 are the Alps to a native of Cumberland who knows his 
 Skiddaw. 
 
 In the summer there is an exodus of the coast dwellers 
 to this part of the country. The queen at Het Loo in 
 eastern Gelderland (Loo signifies eminence, generally 
 wooded) finds here her happiest days. The broom was 
 in blossom and the slopes of the sand hills bright with 
 its sunshine when we made our journey thither. Some- 
 times when the train ran upon high land, we could see 
 far away to the east the heaths dark with unblossomed 
 heather. The whole of eastern Drenthe and Overyssel, 
 
240 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 in respect to the character of its soil and land surface, is 
 of kin to the great heaths of Germany; they are like the 
 Luneburg moors of which they are a far continuation. 
 Those who have seen something of the country south 
 of Hamburg will find little of the scenic new in these 
 portions of the Netherlands which I have mentioned. 
 
 Nymegen, pronounced Nimvagah, was a surprise to 
 us in more ways than one. The large new district that 
 forms the approach to the station impresses one as a 
 part of modern Rome, or a miniature Washington. It 
 is beautiful. The avenues are broad and shaded. A 
 large circle, Keizer Karels Place, like those of Edinburgh 
 or Washington, only finer and larger, was filled with 
 flowers and shrubbery. It is the meeting point of two 
 curving boulevards, one of which leads to the Kronenburg 
 Park, the other to the terrace of the Belvedere, whence 
 one sees the river and the surrounding country for miles. 
 Within these two embracing curves ancient Nymegen 
 sits on her seven hills, a veritable Little Rome, an 
 imperial city that wears its insignia to this day. This 
 hilly amphitheatre slopes to the Waal, the largest and 
 evidently the eldest of the Rhine Daughters. The setting 
 of this city in the extreme east of the Netherlands is 
 unequalled for beauty. Rome has her Tiber, Washing- 
 ton her Potomac, but the imperial seat of Charlemagne 
 has its Waal, more beautiful than either! 
 
 At the extreme right of that embracing curve of 
 boulevard lies, as I said, the castled Belvedere. Above 
 
The Rhine Daughters 241 
 
 it, in a grove so dense that the sunshine scarcely pene- 
 trates to it, is a place which seems made for those Druid 
 rites that obtained in the land till Charlemagne rooted 
 them out by conversion, or decapitation of the partici- 
 pants. There we found the Valkhof: a small ruin more 
 heathen than Christian in architecture, with one round 
 blind-arched niche, and all sorts of greenery gracing its 
 fallen stones. It is, however, a most effective small 
 ruin, seen beneath the deep shade and against a dense 
 background of foliage. It is just a touch, here in the 
 Present, of an imperial Past when a Roman Emperor 
 with Teutonic blood in his veins ruled the entire civil- 
 ized world with an iron hand gloved in velvet. 
 
 To find such a city so far removed from the great 
 commercial ports of South and North Holland was our 
 first surprise. After we had visited the Waalkade, we 
 had our second: The Broomstick was not there; but we 
 found a note at the shipping office informing us that 
 the worthy craft had been delayed by fog and would 
 appear within two days. She was at Vianen on the 
 Lek — another Rhine Daughter. 
 
 We took the steam tram out to Berg en Dal, a hos- 
 telry for summer guests, noted throughout the land for 
 its beauty of site. As we stepped onto the porch ves- 
 tibule of the hotel, who should take my handbag but 
 Ben Hardon! This was surprise number three. 
 
 Oh, but it was good to see a home face away off 
 there in Gelderland! We forgot at the sight Berg en 
 
 16 
 
242 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 Dal, we forgot Nymegen and its seven hills; Charle- 
 magne and the whole Carlovingian dynasty might have 
 been occupying the best suites in the hotel, for all we 
 cared at that moment and for two hours afterwards. 
 It was something of home that had come over to us — 
 a real live bit of that dear America. (I say "bit" but 
 Ben weighs fully one hundred and seventy.) 
 
 "Oh, Ben!" were my first articulate words, "have 
 you had your boots blacked since you left America ?" 
 
 I think he thought I had been long enough in the 
 land to have water on the brain, for he looked at me a 
 little wildly. I had to explain. "Because if you haven't, 
 perhaps there is a particle of dust from that blessed 
 land left on them; and if there is, I want to see it." 
 
 "Whew!" It was a long whistle. Then he smiled 
 and said to tease: "Perhaps a little from the Hoboken 
 docks — would that do ?" I nodded. 
 
 "You don't mean to tell me that you've been a little 
 homesick, Persis?" 
 
 "Oh, no, not a bit; but it's so good to see you. I 
 can't wait now to see — " James coughed significantly, 
 and I caught myself up in time to remember that I had 
 promised not to say a word about the girls' coming 
 until we should have reached Dordrecht. 
 
 "You found my letter at the banker's in Rotterdam ?" 
 James asked, when we had come to ourselves again, 
 and were able to answer the host coherently. 
 
 "Yes, but the steamer came in eight hours ahead of 
 time, so, instead of telegraphing you, I came on myself." 
 
The Rhine Daughters 243 
 
 James wrung his hand again, and after we had had a 
 home evening of chat and earnest talk, we settled down 
 to enjoy Berg en Dal. Ben declared he would not leave 
 it, not even to see Nymegen. He announced that Charle- 
 magne was a back number, and didn't know what he 
 had missed in not opening a hotel at Berg en Dal instead 
 of building Roman palaces in the city. And what 
 could we do but indulge him — especially in his condition 
 of unrequited affection ? Privately, I told James I could 
 see few traces of the ordeal through which he had 
 been made to pass so recently. All I received for an 
 answer was: "Umph! You don't know Ben." 
 
 Berg en Dal, Hill and Vale, is situated on high ground 
 nearly four miles east of Nymegen. All the little hills 
 about are wooded with pine and other growths, and 
 every sandy patch is bright with broom. From it may 
 be seen a magnificent expanse of country and the rivers 
 that water it. All of us knew the Rhine from Schaff- 
 hausen to Diisseldorf, and we all agreed that Germany 
 had nothing to show comparable with the grandeur of 
 this Lower Rhine as seen from Berg en Dal. 
 
 A few miles to the east above Nymegen, the German 
 Rhine sends a great arm outreaching across the entire 
 breadth of the Netherlands as far as the Maas below 
 Dordrecht. It is called the Waal. A few miles to the 
 north of Nymegen, amongthe wooded heights of Arnhem, 
 the river bifurcates and sends another large arm straight 
 north, as the Yssel, to Kampen and the Zuider Zee. 
 Continuing on its western passage, the Rhine bifurcates 
 
244 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 again midway on the boundary line of the province of 
 Utrecht, and sends another powerful arm, the Lek, 
 straight across country again to the Maas below Dord- 
 recht, and afterwards runs for a while enfeebled, as the 
 Crooked Rhine, to Utrecht. Here again it loses a mem- 
 ber in the Vecht, and then crawls slowly, as the Old 
 Rhine, on to Leyden where it enters the Rhine Haven 
 hard by the Zyl Gate, and renews its youth within the 
 confines of that charming city. 
 
 This curiously interesting forking process, repeated 
 again and again by this wonderful Rhine, makes of a 
 large portion of Western Gelderland and South Holland 
 an island oblong in shape and embraced by the arms 
 of the Waal and the Lek, the old Batavian stronghold. 
 This own country of the Rhine's Daughters —the 
 "good meadow," of those old Batavians — whom he has 
 left to enrich it while he goes the way of age to lesser 
 tasks in the north, is crossed and recrossed by water- 
 ways, artificial and natural. South of this island runs 
 the lawless Maas which forms the northern boundary 
 of North Brabant. This explanation is necessary to 
 understand why this Rhine Country, which may be seen 
 in all its grandeur of expanse from Berg en Dal, is so 
 peculiarly alluring to anyone interested in engineering, 
 as well as to a simple soul like myself who rejoices in 
 such natural beauty of a unique kind. A glance at a 
 map of the Netherlands will serve, after this explana- 
 tion, to fix clearly in one's mind this apparent confusion 
 of many waters. 
 
The Rhine Daughters 245 
 
 With Berg en Dal as our base, we crossed and recrossed 
 this broad country, one part of which is called The 
 Betuwe, and found all of it intensely interesting. We 
 crossed the Maas, the Waal, the Lek — from 's Herto- 
 genbosch, or Bois-le-Duc, in North Brabant, to Rhenen 
 on the Lek. We discovered — or thought we did — the 
 most beautiful tower on all the Rhine, upper or lower: 
 St. Cunera at Rhenen. We made acquaintance with 
 Geldermalsen and Zalt Bommel, with Hedel, a picture- 
 village the like of which one may look far and near 
 to find. The whole hamlet hes low among the green; 
 the brown-thatched roofs — not a tiled one could we 
 see — sloping so low to the ground and the meadows 
 that the whole village looked like a colony of meadow- 
 larks' nests hidden in the green, and no more hke the 
 dwellings of North Holland and Friesland, than a lark's 
 nest is like a barn-swallow's. 
 
 The bridges that span these rivers are marvels of 
 engineering. In crossing them, we could look up and 
 down the great arteries of the Netherlands for miles 
 and miles. Beneath, as far as the eye can see, are spread 
 the lush meadows on which a thousand cattle graze. 
 Sometimes a whole herd is seen standing knee-deep in 
 the back waters of Waal, or Lek, that make clear pools 
 as large as small lakes among the pastures. There is 
 a fine feeling of expansive freedom, of physical and 
 spiritual uplift in such an outlook and overlook in a 
 wholly beautiful country. Here and there a village 
 shows its thatched roofs, ponderous, uneven, hipped. 
 
246 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 Here and there below us a steamer trails its smoke 
 pennant, or a Rhine boat under full sail glides swiftly 
 down the stream. It is this far-reaching, unbounded 
 prospect — smiling in sunshine seems no metaphor in this 
 instance — swept by great rain-curtains, mirroring, in its 
 broad river-reaches, storm-cloud and sunshine as well 
 as blue heavens and high white cloud, that makes the 
 renown of Berg en Dal, and made us loath to leave it. 
 
 To carry with one an impression of Nymegen that 
 cannot be effaced, one should cross the Waal on the 
 gierpont, or ferry, to the village of Lent on the oppo- 
 site bank. The pressure of the current works the ferry. 
 After seeing this locomotive power at work one can 
 readily understand the enormous difficulties Caesar over- 
 came when he built that Rhine bridge over which every 
 boy in the Latin School has puzzled. 
 
 From Lent you may see the red roofs of the city 
 rising tier above tier from the water, and the towers of 
 the Groote Kerk and Stadhuis dominating them. To 
 the left is the castle on the Belvedere, to the right the 
 remaining tower of the old fortifications, the founda- 
 tions of both hidden by the foliage of the parks that 
 surround them. It is a fitting frame for the legend of 
 Lohengrin and the Swan, this ancient imperial city the 
 feet of which are washed by the most beautiful of the 
 Rhine Daughters. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 ST. John's of bois-le-duc 
 
 James had intended to withhold from Ben until the 
 day came for us to embark, the pleasing fact that we 
 had a Rhine yacht of our own for the river journey 
 from Nymegen to Dordrecht. We had planned to break 
 the long trip by a stop at Waarden in order to cross 
 country once more to 's Hertogenbosch for Ascension 
 Day, and to make a longer stay at Gorinchem. But we 
 had to tell him a little in advance to induce him to leave 
 Berg en Dal. His plea for lingering there was that 
 "it was doing him no end of good." 
 
 I looked at James significantly when this remark was 
 made, and inwardly had a qualm at the thought that 
 all the "good" might be undone in less than a week's 
 time when Lou and Lois were expected at Dordrecht. 
 But James looked blank, and merely suggested that we 
 go down to the Waalkade and look the boats over. 
 There on the quay he told Ben, and we went on board 
 our Broomstick which had weathered out the fog and 
 made her appearance in due season. The mongrel cur, 
 with forefeet stemmed on the stringer of the quay and 
 his hind ones on the Broomstick's gunwale, met us with 
 vociferous yelps. Whether "Lump" preempted Ben, 
 
 247 
 
248 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 or Ben "Lump" I have never known; all I know is 
 that from the moment of their introduction they were 
 inseparable companions, until a week later in Dordrecht 
 when both their noses were put out of joint, in an 
 unexpected manner. 
 
 Neeltje made a little feast of a supper to celebrate 
 our return, and gave us herring and potato salad, cold 
 roast beef with mayonnaise sauce highly redolent of 
 onion, good bread and tea, and, in addition, strawberries 
 such as only the Netherlands can produce, with a plate 
 of Nymegen mappes — I think I spell the name cor- 
 rectly. These are special cakes of the imperial city, and 
 the recipe for them, for all I know, may have been 
 handed down from Charlemagne's chef, who concocted 
 dishes for the emperor in the Romanesque palace that 
 once stood on the heights above our heads. It was a 
 thoroughly Dutch supper, but a good one. 
 
 We spent that night at Berg en Dal, and sailed the 
 next morning when the light mists had not risen from 
 the Waal. A little later they dispersed, and we made 
 the voyage beneath sunny skies. 
 
 This voyage from Nymegen to Dordrecht should be 
 made by everyone who may have but little time — if 
 only two weeks — to spare for the Netherlands. All the 
 natural beauty that is seen afar from the wooded heights 
 of Berg en Dal, or from the span of some mighty bridge, 
 comes into intimate hand-to-hand relation with one at 
 the level of the river. We came to have a speaking 
 
St. John's of Bois-le-Duc 249 
 
 acquaintance, as it were, with all the river craft that 
 passed us, as well as with the hamlets and towns on the 
 banks. The channel turns capriciously from side to 
 side of the broad expanse. The rapid current carries 
 the boat sometimes to the very edge of the lush mead- 
 ows, and at others sweeps it out into mid-stream. The 
 boats pulling up-stream literally work their passage, 
 and are aided by an arrangement of windlass, ropes 
 and make-fast irons by which they are worked labori- 
 ously against the current up the river. We stopped at 
 Waarden, and went across by way of lovely Hedel to 
 's Hertogenbosch, or Bois-le-Duc, the Duke's Forest, as 
 's Gravenhage shows us the Preserves of the Counts. 
 
 North Brabant is a country by itself, and should be 
 seen as such. We were obliged to save it for a bonne 
 bouche of future travel. We saw only the northern part 
 and a portion of the western. They may be as amphibi- 
 ous as the rest of the western lands, but they did not 
 have that appearance in May. We saw hedges instead 
 of canals, rich gardens, planted fields, thrifty orchards 
 and thriving towns follow one another in quick succes- 
 sion. The sail among the meadows was rare and the 
 windmill so seldom seen as to be a noticeable feature in 
 the landscape. Flowers abound and the peasant life is 
 gayer than in the provinces bordering the sea. One 
 perceives it to be the next-door-neighbor country of 
 David Teniers, 
 
 It was Ascension Day, and the peasants had come into 
 
250 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 the city in full force to celebrate the feast in their be- 
 loved cathedral of St. John. One goes to Bois-le-Duc 
 to see this cathedral, and little else. The iconoclasts of 
 the Reformation and the greater iconoclast, Time, have, 
 in a manner, spared this house of worship, and we of 
 To-day may enjoy much of its ancient beauty. This 
 and the Dom of Utrecht were the two great cathedrals 
 in the Netherlands. It is a magnificent structure with 
 all the suggestion of a profuse ornamentation that does 
 not obscure the grace and strength of its beautiful lines. 
 We realized as we entered it that we were within the 
 sphere of influence in art that surrounds the Cathedral 
 at Antwerp, the Hotel de Ville at Brussels, the Stadhuis 
 of Middelburg; these three with Bois-le-Duc's glorious 
 "hymn of praise to God sung in unyielding stone" form 
 an exquisite four-leaved clover of architecture, ecclesias- 
 tic and civic. 
 
 I wrote that first poetical flight with some satisfaction, 
 for in this instance it did seem true; and just as I had 
 finished, James chose to look over my shoulder, as he 
 does frequently when I am at work — in order, I sup- 
 pose, to assure himself that I am not getting "flowery" 
 as he says — and took this, what seemed to me, inop- 
 portune moment to criticize my poetical statement. 
 
 "That's all right, Persis, as poetry, but the sentiment 
 doesn't square with the facts." 
 
 "What do you mean .''" I asked, with suspended pen. 
 
 "Why, the fact is that this particular cathedral was 
 
St. John's of Bois-le-Duc 25i 
 
 built of a particularly friable stone, anything but 'un- 
 yielding,' and until the restorations were made it was in 
 a dilapidated condition." 
 
 It is strange how a man of James' ideal tendencies 
 can suddenly drop down to the bed-rock of fact, so soon 
 as there is a statement made that isn't, so to speak, 
 built on architectural lines, that is, with a base that is 
 proportionate to the superstructure. I was moved to 
 retort : 
 
 "Well, my dear, it may appear friable to you, but 
 seeing it was built in fourteen hundred and something, 
 and is still in a sufficiently robust state of preservation 
 to last several centuries, I am going to keep my wings 
 poised in poetical flight and stick to the 'unyielding'." 
 
 "Oh, well, it won't harm the book; you might state 
 the fact, however, as a set-off to it." 
 
 "Hm-m." With this marital intermezzo, I felt at 
 liberty to resume my work. 
 
 I shall always associate that Ascension Day — the 
 Journey to Heaven Day, as the Dutch say so aptly — 
 with the Easter in the Scheveningen fishermen's church. 
 The same earnest, hearty spirit of worship pervaded 
 both congregations, the one Protestant, the other Catho- 
 lic. But in the cathedral there were gathered thousands, 
 where in the other there were hundreds. In the Prot- 
 estant church there were not wanting signs of indigence, 
 and the wear and tear of poverty; in the cathedral there 
 was everywhere in evidence the opulence of the one class 
 
252 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 and the comfortable living of the other. In the Schev- 
 eningen church there were lacking all ornament and 
 church paraphernalia, save the gold cap-pins of the 
 women, the silver chalices of the communion, and the 
 grotesque yet congruous backbone of the sea leviathian 
 in the corner. In the church, as in cathedral, there was 
 sung the praise of the Creator; but one was filled with the 
 deep abiding sound of the fishermen's voices that called 
 upon the Lord for faith and strength to endure — the 
 cry of a toil-worn humanity. In the ancient St. John's, 
 the Gloria pealed among the arches of the great nave 
 that sent back the echo of the boys' voices, untried yet 
 in the world's furnace of passion and toil — the antiph- 
 onal of the "choir invisible." 
 
 The peasants were in gala costume, and the nave was 
 a sea of white caps and artificial flowers. The Brabantese 
 wear a large lace cap, with full cape. A yard or two of 
 broad white damask silk ribbon is banded over the top 
 and fastened as far as the ears; the long ends are loose, 
 and flutter and float about in the wind. Over the top 
 of the cap, covering the ribbon band, is worn a large 
 half-wreath of white artificial flowers. The eflPect is 
 beautiful in the mass and charming in the individual. 
 Even the aged women of eighty look as if they had re- 
 newed their youth, when one sees their wrinkled, but 
 healthy, faces looking out cheerfully from the mass of 
 lace, ribbons and flowers. The whole community, as seen 
 that day at church and in the streets, gave one the im- 
 
St. John's of Bois-le-Duc 253 
 
 pression of well-to-do-ness, of physical bien aise, the 
 result of comfortable living. 
 
 The Stadhuis, after the service, was filled with citizens 
 of all classes. One of the ancient rooms above — it was 
 worth climbing the stairs to feel the support of a massive 
 and ancient balustrade in carved wood — had been set 
 apart for the distribution of prizes for the drawings of 
 the pupils from the schools. They were remarkable, 
 many of these drawings — all copies of prescribed works 
 which were by masters old and new, and to judge from 
 the exhibition, the future of the art of delineation would 
 seem secure. I could but feel that among those pupils 
 there must be another Israels, another Maris, or Mauve, 
 perhaps a Bosboom to paint for us the interior of Bois- 
 le-Duc's noble Cathedral of St. John as it may be seen 
 on a bright Ascension Day. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 GREAT HEAD GATE 
 
 The best port of entry for all the delights of 
 Dordrecht is Gorinchem. It is situated, as James 
 suggests, on one of the Rhine's granddaughters, the 
 Merwede. The Waal at Gorinchem, a few hours 
 above Dordrecht, takes this name — pronounced 
 Mare-va-dah — and keeps on to Dordrecht where it 
 masquerades again as De Noord and mingles with 
 the Maas. 
 
 The approach to Gorinchem, — pronounced Horkum, 
 as Gouda is spoken Howda — the approach to Alkmaar, 
 and to Veere in Zeeland are, perhaps, the most strikingly 
 effective among the many water-approaches in the 
 Netherlands. The Waal just here is lake-like and broken 
 into broad irregular reaches by points, a few of 
 them wooded. We were on the lookout for ancient 
 Woudrichem, pronounced Workum, as we rounded one 
 of them on which stands the Castle of Loevenstein, in- 
 timately connected with the Netherlands' seventeenth 
 century history. After rounding this, we came upon the 
 old church tower of Woudrichem, a ponderous, unfin- 
 ished mass of great architectural beauty, and first cousin 
 to the neighboring one of Dordrecht. It is a landmark 
 
 254 
 
Great Head Gate 255 
 
 for the country, as is Dort's, and can be seen for miles 
 in three directions. 
 
 Our Uncle Corney, or Oom Kees, as we preferred to 
 call him, had been growing more and more loquacious 
 as we neared his native Zeeland. He was a wonderful 
 old fellow, only sixty-one, but looking seventy-five so 
 seasoned was he with salt water and bent with toil. 
 He had been in England, Singapore, Japan, and South 
 America, and both spoke and understood English pass- 
 ably well. But in his pride and excitement of showing 
 us some new beauty of his watery land, he would lapse 
 into Dutch, and describe it with a whole-hearted enjoy- 
 ment that was always a source of amusement for James 
 and for me. Sometimes he would tell yarns that flavored 
 of fish; but if I doubted, he would look at me reprov- 
 ingly out of his weather eye, which was always as wide 
 open as the other was close shut — apparently! — and 
 with a significant gesture, raise his salt-water-cracked 
 and tiller-calloused right hand, the two first fingers up- 
 lifted and the rest folded into the palm, with such an 
 honestly injured expression that I was forced to believe 
 him. Ben and he were friends from the first. He heard 
 us exclaim at the age and mass of the ancient tower of 
 Woudrichem, as it came into view, and favored us with 
 a word or two of explanation in Dutch. 
 
 "Ja, it's so old that the grass got to growing heavy 
 on top of it — you can see from here what a sight there 
 must have been — and nobody dared to go up there and 
 
256 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 mow it, it was so high; so they rigged up a derrick and 
 a tackle, and hoisted a cow up there to graze it ofF." 
 
 "Oh, Oom Kees! Not up there!" I had to protest. 
 
 "Ja, up there; and when they finally got the cow up 
 she was — caput." 
 
 "Not dead?" 
 
 " Ja, caput for good and all." 
 
 "When did this happen?" James asked skeptically, 
 thinking to phase him a little. The answer came 
 promptly: 
 
 "Seventeen hundred and thirty-three." We translated 
 for Ben. 
 
 "And grass grows there now?" Ben inquired, pursing 
 his lips. 
 
 "Ja; take the glass and you'll see for yourself." He 
 handed him the glass. Sure enough grass was growing 
 in the crannies and on the top of the walls. Still I 
 doubted; I turned to him. 
 
 "Now, Oom Kees, is this true?" 
 
 He looked me straight in the eyes with his one honest, 
 open, weather one, and, raising the two fingers of his 
 right hand, repeated without the twitch of a facial 
 muscle: "Seventeen hundred and thirty-three." 
 
 What could we do but accept so solemn an affirma- 
 tion ? 
 
 Gorinchem, like human things, must be known to be 
 loved. When once known and loved, one returns to it 
 in spirit again and again, and always with the hope of 
 
APPROACH TO GORINCHEM 
 
Great Head Gate 857 
 
 returning to it in the flesh. The approach just outside 
 the water-gate is seen in the illustration; but what is 
 not seen is the wonderful approach on the Merwede. 
 The town is ramparted with dykes that have salients 
 Hke real fortifications, and bastioned by two great wind- 
 mills, one at each end of the town. De Eendracht, a 
 behemoth of a mill, the name of which signifies Union, 
 towers above the shelving dyke-walls. Its great 
 moving arms throw their shadows on the river waters. 
 Within the flood-gates are the iron lock and sluice- 
 gates that protect the inner haven. This is a large 
 rectangular basin, bordered and shaded by elms and 
 lindens, in which the bright-sailed craft are moored, 
 and into which our worthy Broomstick, after nosing, 
 literally, the iron sluice-gates, entered with colors flying, 
 both of the Netherlands and the United States. 
 
 We moored by the broad, terraced, stone steps that 
 extend two hundred feet or more along the "Eind" 
 which forms within this dyke-ramparted town a kind of 
 Venetian piazzetta. And James and I never enjoyed 
 Venice, its canals, and piazzetta, more than we did the 
 "Eind" and its clear green waters, shut safe and sound 
 behind the double flood-gates. The vista of the long 
 Linge Haven, that extends the length of the town and 
 connects with the Linge, an affluent of the Merwede, is 
 as fascinating in its way as the Grand Canal. Its back 
 balconies and bow windows, projecting far over the 
 water and filled with ivy and flowering plants, let one 
 
 17 
 
258 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 into the intimate life of the people as no Venetian palace 
 facade can ever do. The town has its great campanile, 
 also, St. Jan's Tower that leans at a dangerous angle 
 above the roofs of Gorinchem. It has what Venice has 
 not, its Dalem Gate, over by the fishers' quarters. 
 
 We took a walk that evening of our arrival out through 
 this old gate to the adjoining fishers' ward and the dykes 
 beyond. We came upon a group of fishermen just 
 outside the shadow of the arch. There were, perhaps, 
 sixteen of them, and one and all removed their caps 
 and gave us the usual evening salutation. It is charm- 
 ing to receive these greetings in a foreign land, for they 
 are an index, not of dependent servility, but of brotherly 
 good will and independent manhood. 
 
 There is always a foot-path along the dykes, and we 
 followed it. In the soft rich evening light, that holds, as 
 it were, the orange-red mists of sunset in suspension 
 long after the sun is beneath the horizon, the wide 
 waters of the Merwede gleamed like a mother-of-pearl 
 shield embossed with emerald. The breeze blew fresh 
 over the seemingly boundless meadows beyond the dykes. 
 Some fishermen, sitting by their upturned boats, were 
 mending their nets. The cries of children playing in 
 the street beyond the Dalempoort came faintly to us. 
 As the dyke zigzagged to the entrance of the haven just 
 by the great windmill, we came upon some houses high 
 on the dyke wall beside the water-gate. Just there a 
 long balcony, the balustrade of which was covered with 
 
Great Head Gate 259 
 
 trailing vines and bright with blossoms, overhangs the 
 outer waters of the Merwede. We saw little tables set 
 in it, and people moving to and fro behind the vines; 
 we heard from within the house singing and laughter. 
 It was a living picture after Van Ostade. 
 
 It seemed the continuation of a serial story to enter 
 the narrow streets once more, and climb the steep stairs 
 in our comfortable inn to the large, low-ceiled bed- 
 rooms; to fall asleep in the knowledge that on the mor- 
 row we might wake to all the enjoyment of "De Een- 
 dracht," the "Eind," the homelike clatter of wooden 
 klompjes on the pavements, as well as all the sweet sounds 
 of an unspoiled country life that was everywhere in 
 evidence about us. 
 
 Such a town of "little gates" as it is! Flood-gates 
 and sluice-gates and Dalem Gate, and one ancient, 
 tiny "goose-gate," which gave me entrance into a close 
 that was a left-over bit of the Middle Ages, and Hugo 
 de Groot's poortje, another "little gate," and garden 
 gates, and gates that open upon the green slopes of the 
 far-stretching dykes! 
 
 A fine introduction, this little Gorinchem, for the 
 greater Dordrecht on the lower Merwede ! Let anyone 
 from across the sea enter by its water-gate and sit for a 
 summer's day in the shadow of De Eendracht, or on the 
 terraced steps of the " Eind" and watch the life of the 
 place all about him. That man will never count that 
 day but as a gain. 
 
260 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 We had hoped to sail from Gorinchem to Vianen and 
 from there to Vreeland on the Vecht; but it would not 
 bring us to Dordrecht in time for the girls. That is 
 another bit of enjoyment we have saved for the future. 
 
 Dear old Dort! With its quays, and drawbridges, and 
 vessels, and boats, masts, rigging, trees, houses, gates, 
 and the Dean of Dutch towers, all higgledy-piggledy — ■ 
 tower, masts, and houses beginning no one knows where 
 and ending no one knows howl One thing only is cer- 
 tain, as you approach it from the Merwede, that there 
 never was just such an old town guarded by just such 
 an old church, standing with both feet in lively, bright-blue, 
 glinting waters, as this same Dort on the lower Merwede. 
 
 I have been so fortunate as to approach it by water — 
 and unless one has made this approach he cannot be said 
 to have seen Dort — six times, and every time its sur- 
 passing charm has grown the greater. To see far away 
 in the distance, as we sail down the Merwede, the great 
 tower loom faintly blue; to watch it draw nearer and 
 nearer and define itself as the guardian of the town; to 
 catch a first glimpse of Great Head Gate and see it de- 
 tach itself from the surrounding jumble of houses and 
 masts, and plant itself sturdily in open-arched welcome 
 to the stranger; to disembark under the great trees on 
 the Merwekade; to find one's way through that great 
 gate, and around the corner to a particular inn and up 
 winding stairs to a particular room, the side window of 
 which opens on a small balcony that is flush with the 
 
Great Head Gate 26 1 
 
 windows of that gate, is to feel "at home" in a strange 
 land, and an "at-oneness" with the surroundings. 
 
 James had written for our rooms, and as I leaned on 
 the taffrail watching our approach, about four in the 
 afternoon, I pleased myself by thinking how soon I 
 could preempt my room by the Great Head Gate and, 
 placing my chair on the little balcony, watch, under the 
 protection of the historical walls, the fascinating life of 
 the great water way beneath me. 
 
 "The best laid plans," etc. As we drew to the quay 
 at the foot of the gate, I was aware of a girl dressed in 
 pink sitting in a straw chair on that same preempted 
 Great Head balcony of mine! She was holding over her 
 bare head a rose-pink parasol, frilled and flounced with 
 white lace and chifibn. For a most effective back- 
 ground she had the facade of the splendid old domed 
 Groothoofdspoort, all carved lions, and heads, and alle- 
 gorical figures, and medallions. I confess it was a start- 
 ling sight, and for a few minutes it dwarfed the great 
 gate, its dome, its arch, and everything about it into 
 insignificance — just a pretty American girl in a pink 
 dress with a rose-pink sunshade over her head to dwarf 
 the Great Head Gate of ancient Dordrecht! 
 
 But she did it! And so effectively that James ex- 
 claimed under his breath, before I could regain my men- 
 tal equilibrium: 
 
 "By George! She's scored one on her side this time! 
 What'U Ben say?" 
 
262 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 This was my thought • — ■ a far from pleasing one, — 
 and I gave the girl a mental shaking for springing such 
 a surprise on us. Yet I might have expected some- 
 thing of the sort, knowing Lois as I do. I looked towards 
 Ben. Apparently he was lost in admiration of the view 
 afforded by our approach. 
 
 "Let things take their course," I whispered hurriedly 
 to James — and they did! 
 
 Lump always accepted the dropping of the tow- 
 fender by Oom Kees between The Broomstick and a 
 quay as the signal for him to make known our arrival 
 to all whom it might, or might not, concern. This he 
 now proceeded to do with such vim and thoroughness 
 that our otherwise unpretentious craft was forced upon 
 the attention of every lounger on the quay, every occu- 
 pant of the inn at the windows which looked to the 
 Merwede, every man of every crew on the various river 
 craft about us. It was a steady fortissimo " jah, jah, 
 jah," with not a breath between, wholly confusing as 
 well as deafening. 
 
 Suddenly from the balcony came an answering yelp, 
 then a chromatic scale of frantic squeals and choking 
 barks. There was a flurry of the pink dress, a grab at 
 the dog to keep him from throwing himself between 
 the irons of the balustrade, a reaching into the window; 
 then the two, girl and dog, stood there together. The 
 thoroughbred Boston terrier, for such I perceived him 
 to be — the one that Ben had given her the winter 
 
Great Head Gate 263 
 
 before — was vainly attempting to dash himself over 
 into the street. With one hand the girl was waving 
 with might and main a small Stars and Stripes; with the 
 other she was restraining the almost frantic dog in his 
 efforts to reach Ben. 
 
 We perceived that this was intended for a salute to 
 our flag. Oom Kees dipped the colors, and James and 
 Ben bared their heads, like the two dear American men 
 that they are; and, somehow, in the confusion of the 
 canine duet, and amidst laughing, and pretty nearly 
 weeping on my part, I got myself disembarked only to 
 find Lou's and Lois' arms about me. 
 
 "And how do you do, Mr. Hardon ?" Lois said, cor- 
 dially, offering him her hand over the gunwale as she 
 stood on the quay. "Well, if this isn't jolly! You don't 
 mean to say. Cousin James, that this is our boat and 
 we're to go in it! How perfectly lovely! I'm coming on 
 board." And therewith she ran over the small gang- 
 plank, and within five minutes had pronounced "the 
 whole thing perfect," had the promise from Neeltje of 
 a herring-salad for a supper at some future time, had 
 shaken hands with our grave nephew-captain and brought 
 a smile to his face, and reduced Oom Kees to an abject 
 state of slavish adoration; in fact, in ten minutes she 
 owned The Broomstick. That is Lois. 
 
 "Oh, where's Bizzy?" she exclaimed, as a sudden 
 cessation of the double yelps allowed our own voices to 
 be heard. "That dog's been more trouble than he's 
 
«64 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 worth!" she exclaimed, half-pettishly. I perceived this 
 remark to be made for the benefit of Ben. 
 
 "I'll gladly take him off your hands, Miss Moulton. 
 The old fellow and I used to be such chums," said Ben, 
 in such a hearty tone of assurance that it did my soul 
 good to hear him; I knew he could stand his ground after 
 I heard that. 
 
 Prince Bismarck, as the aristocratic thoroughbred was 
 named, and called Bizzy for short, was at that moment 
 low on his paunch engaged in licking Ben's boots with a 
 desperation of loving frenzy. He, too, had entered into 
 his own again, for he had been Ben's dog before he had 
 been given to Lois. I saw at once that Bizzy's return to 
 his early allegiance and its expression were not pleasing 
 to our small cousin. But she smiled, and answered just 
 as heartily: 
 
 "You're awfully kind to take him off my hands, for 
 I shall really enjoy going about without him tagging at 
 my heels and threatening to fight every foreign dog he 
 meets; and, so far as I see, he meets with one about once 
 a minute here in Holland." 
 
 "I'll see to it that he doesn't trouble you any more," 
 said Ben, rather stiffly, and I perceived that the war was 
 on again between the two, and groaned inwardly. "And 
 by the way, how do you happen to come and surprise 
 us here in this fashion?" he said, pleasantly; "it's 
 time to give an account of yourselves," he added, turn- 
 ing to Lou. 
 
Great Head Gate 265 
 
 I know I was mean; but I left James to explain the 
 situation as best he could, and hurried Lou away with 
 me through the archway to the hotel — and another 
 room than the one I had preempted by the Great Head 
 Gate! 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 DORT 
 
 For the next few days we lived on the Gate and under 
 it and pretty nearly over it. It was such a satisfaction 
 to James and me to live next to Middle-aged History, 
 which period we are fast approaching, and be able at 
 any time to run into it and lose ourselves in the Past of 
 this remarkable land. 
 
 It is an interesting collection that is on exhibition in 
 the two or three rooms of the Groothoofdspoort and its 
 cupola. It is well worth the hours spent in it, if one 
 would enter more fully into a conception of the parapher- 
 nalia of life, as it was lived in the seventeenth century 
 when the great Dutch masters were so fond of painting 
 it. There is a chimney-piece from the Kloveniers-Doelen, 
 a wonderful piece of wood-carving in old oak, perhaps 
 the finest of its kind in the Netherlands. It is sur- 
 mised that the master wood-carver, Terwen, had a hand 
 in this. Such a work of art gives one an adequate idea 
 of the rich interiors of these old doelen that have figured 
 so largely in the annals of art and civic defense. But 
 what pleased us most is an old door from the homestead 
 of a certain Joost Smits of Dubbeldam, on which is painted 
 the life-size figure of a man by Dordrecht's own son, Albert 
 
 266 
 
Dort 267 
 
 Cuyp. I have seen nothing of Cuyp's so human as this 
 figure portrait of a well-to-do farmer — for such it ap- 
 pears to be — that looks out at you from the panels of 
 the ancient door as if bidding you welcome to his home. 
 I wondered if it might not be the ancestor of this same 
 Joost Smits, at whose farmhouse Albert Cuyp had been 
 a welcome guest, and one day in merry painting mood 
 had left the portrait of his host as an autograph card 
 on the hospitable door! 
 
 There is a fine collection of " penningen " and medals, 
 memorializing pretty nearly everything connected with 
 Dordrecht except its great artists. There is nothing for 
 Nicholaes Maes, but plenty for the two great brothers, 
 John and Cornelius de Witt. There is an Ary Scheffer 
 Plein in the town, but no memorial to the town's great- 
 est son — Nicholaes Maes. Time, I trust, and public 
 sentiment will change this order of things. 
 
 Lou and Ben were generally with us on what we called 
 our exploring parties, but none of us attempted to keep 
 track of Lois. She declared she had fallen in love with 
 Dordrecht and everything Dutch, and would like to 
 spend a summer there. She spent part of her time 
 trundling in the open one-horse car from the station to 
 Great Head Gate, and loved to jingle through its arched 
 way out upon the quay, where nothing prevents the 
 horse from trotting into the Merwede but an instinct 
 that directs him to remain on terra firma for his own 
 good. She was to be found of a morning when the 
 
268 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 lights were cool on the water, in some one of the steigers, 
 the short, narrow, sloping, paved, and stepped lanes 
 between two houses. They serve as landing places from 
 the Voorstraatshaven. Generally she was sketching the 
 ever-charming view, beloved by artists, that is seen in 
 the illustration. 
 
 Once, having missed her for a couple of hours, we 
 traced her to the market-place. It was market-day, and 
 she said she could never have enough of that special 
 market held in Dordrecht. The peasants land their 
 wares, or rather pile them, on the pavement of the nar- 
 row streets, or lay them out attractively in small port- 
 able booths. It was a goodly sight: the flutter of the 
 white caps over the eggs and butter, the earnest crowds 
 about the vegetable display on the paving stones and 
 about the booths that filled the Groenmarkt. These 
 are crowded with cheap wares which vary from a pin 
 and suspenders, to a looking-glass and wooden shoes. 
 She learned to imitate a man who was a figure in this 
 market; he was hawking his wares of blue earthen-ware 
 by singing over and over some doggerel rhymed adver- 
 tisement, the refrain of which ran "Blue, blue, blue." 
 It was part recitative, part singing; and the man, his 
 blue wares, and his song were a charming adjunct of 
 the crowded market-place. 
 
 Ben did not seem to mind her presence, nor she his. 
 They avoided being alone together, otherwise I should 
 have judged both of them to be reconciled to the decree 
 
A REMINISCENCE OF VENICE 
 DORDRECHT 
 
Dort 269 
 
 of Fate. After the first skirmish about the dog, the 
 strained relations between them had ceased to be no- 
 ticeable; but they had extended to the two dogs, and 
 the condition became chronic. Bizzy was obliged to be 
 kept at one end of The Broomstick, with Oom Kees to 
 spoil him, and Lump at the other in Neeltje's protecting 
 care. Had it not been for these precautions, there 
 would have been continuous scrappings. As it was, we 
 used to hear wild scufflings and squeals and gurr-gurr- 
 ings in the quiet evening hours when we went round to 
 the Old Haven where The Broomstick was moored; and 
 often in the daytime, when we paid a visit to the boat, 
 we could see from afar Bizzy tied at the prow under the 
 Stars and Stripes, and Lump chained aft under the 
 Netherlands' colors. As we drew nearer we could see 
 both dogs fairly quivering and twitching with suppressed 
 enmity, and hear them gurr-gurring at each other with 
 the length of the boat between them! 
 
 I saw Lois, once when Ben was not looking, try to 
 coax Bizzy to come to her, but he would have none of 
 her without his adored master. I fancied she looked a 
 little crestfallen for a moment; then she caressed Lump, 
 rather effusively. Lump, being a Dutch dog and not 
 demonstrative in affection, was rather impressed by this 
 show of kindness, and, feeling sore over Ben's apparent 
 defection, he took the caress for genuine sentiment and 
 attached himself to her thereafter. 
 
 It was Lois who found out, in hunting about for the 
 
270 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 house of Cornelius de Witt, a home for "Christ's Folk" 
 — orphan girls and boys, old men and women, de- 
 pendent on the charity of others — and made friends 
 with the good Sisters in charge. I know for a fact that 
 she gave the old women afternoon coffee and cakes, and 
 the girls ditto; that she counted among her acquaint- 
 ances the Sister-cook, a grand-looking woman as large 
 as a man. She was dressed wholly in white linen — I 
 saw her afterwards — and her cap flaps were miniature 
 jib-topsails. Her sixty loaves of bread, that she had 
 put to rise when I visited her typical Dutch kitchen, 
 were white and fine and light, for I lifted a loaf to test 
 it. This woman was an artist in her way, as well as a 
 devout follower of her Master. The Sister in charge 
 took me into the chapel and the gardens surrounding it. 
 In one green corner was a glistening shrine fully ten 
 feet high and proportionately wide. It had been made 
 by the artist-cook out of her cinders and coke refuse, 
 out of the house breakage of plates, colored china bits, 
 and glass! All the crannies and cracks were filled with 
 growing trailing vines and delicate grasses. 
 
 Surely there are more ways than one of praising the 
 Creator! But I shall never see a more unique, a more 
 reverent, a more touching manifestation than this same 
 cinder-shrine in the corner of the old garden near the 
 Kerkbuurt in Dordrecht. It was only a Dutch cook's 
 hymn of praise, sung this time not in "unyielding 
 stone," but in the offscourings of the kitchen fires; yet 
 
Dort 271 
 
 I place her work, for the spirit in which it was done, 
 with Fra Angelico's Virgin and Saints that one used to 
 see in St. Mark's in Florence, with Bishop Bernward's 
 bronzes in the Cathedral of Hildesheim, and with 
 Terwen's wood-carvings in the Groote Kerk of Dort. 
 
 These carvings of the choir-stalls in the Groote Kerk 
 should be seen by every one interested in the develop- 
 ing Art of the Netherlands during the sixteenth century, 
 • — the precursor of Rembrandt's and the century of Diirer 
 and Holbein, of Moreelse and Van Scorel. Here again 
 we find, as in Gouda's windows, something of the de- 
 parted glory of the Netherlands. 
 
 We gave a part of two forenoons to the study of this 
 work, the finest of its kind in the country. What must 
 these great churches have been in the full glory of their 
 carvings in wood, their sculptures in stone, their mural 
 paintings, their masterpieces at the altars, their beaten 
 brass and gold and silver ? Nowadays one has only 
 an intimation here and there of what has been: a 
 whitewashed pillar has been scraped and shows be- 
 neath the lime the original coloring; here and there 
 in the museums one finds the bits of carving in 
 wood and the broken sculpture in stone; that is all 
 that remains. 
 
 In these carvings we find the expression of the two 
 great governing forces of the civilized world about the 
 middle of the sixteenth century. They body forth the 
 spiritual and the temporal power: the power of Chris- 
 
272 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 tianity through the medium of the Church, and the 
 power of sovereignty in the triumph of Charles the Fifth. 
 
 When this great artist, Jan Terwen Aertsz, desired 
 to rest both body and soul from his labors with the 
 lords spiritual and temporal, he carved just an every- 
 day peasant with his basket of eggs ready for the 
 market in Dort — a woven willow basket, of the pattern 
 of today, carved with all the loving care that he put into 
 the rich trappings of the Emperor's following, or the folds 
 of the Virgin's mantle. He gave his imagination free 
 rein in depicting the lesser things of life; we find the 
 lower animals, a bat, two dogs, a bird — the catalogue 
 of them all would fill a quarto — enjoying jokes of their 
 own, and playing pranks on their kind. But these works 
 take a low place in the synagogue. They are carved low 
 down on the seats, far removed from the grand friezes 
 behind the rows of stalls, and their triumphant proces- 
 sions. There is caste even here in Art! 
 
 How the poor artists have struggled throughout 
 the centuries to represent Jonah and the Whale, and 
 how ill they have succeeded in their wood and stone 
 interpretations of this episode! It was too much for 
 Artist Terwen, and he solved his difficulties in his own 
 way: he carved the finest kind of a man for Jonah, 
 and then showed him dangling a neat little fish about 
 the size, in miniature, of a rock-cod in his left 
 hand! He is swinging along in the most nonchalant 
 manner, and we perceive him to be not the Jonah of old, 
 
Dort 273 
 
 but a sturdy Dort fisherman with a good-sized salmon 
 in his hand! "Never mind !" I can hear Terwen say to 
 himself, "I can't put a leviathan of the sea into a space 
 of a few square inches, and a man inside the fish, yet 
 Scripture must be upheld and endorsed in Art — so here 
 goes for Jonah." It is a dehghtful bit of fun and carving 
 combined. 
 
 There are two carvings here to which I should like to 
 call the attention of anyone interested in this special work. 
 One is on the end seat of the row of stalls towards the 
 windows in the round of the apse, and the other on the 
 end of the opposite row across the choir. Both face the 
 eastern window of the apse ; they are the last, or first, carv- 
 ings of the hundreds and hundreds of figures presented 
 in thewhole greatwork. Both face the East, — that Jeru- 
 salem towards which the architects of old built the apse 
 as towards the shrine of Christianity. One is a small 
 Mater Dolorosa, mutilated and worn as are most of the 
 other figures, but in pose so perfect that we can but 
 wonder if Carlo Dolci took it for a model for his famous 
 painting of the Virgin of the Finger in the Uffizi. The 
 other, the "man of sorrows," an Ecce Homo that is 
 own brother to that famous one by Rodin in the Royal 
 Gallery at Brussels. 
 
 There is a depth of meaning in every one of these tiny 
 carvings, for in this art, as in painting, the poet-soul in the 
 artist interprets subjectively the common life of Human- 
 ity — a mother's pain, a son's bowed shoulders and sweat 
 
 18 
 
274 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 of toiling agony. All this will endure so long as nature 
 lasts, and man, the best of nature. 
 
 As we lingered in the choir, there were audible the 
 softest, sweetest organ tones, rising, swelling to an almost 
 unearthly harmony, then sinking to the merest melodious 
 whisper. The organist, so the sacristan said, was rehears- 
 ing for a provincial Musical Fest, or convention, to be 
 given in a week. The acoustic properties of the choir 
 proved to be perfect. At last we took our seats in the 
 stalls in order to enjoy this unexpected treat. The sun 
 was shining brightly, and the fine old church — white 
 pillared, white arched, and white groined — as seen across 
 the great brass screen was radiant with a kind of shining 
 purity of line, as it was filled with a corresponding purity 
 of tone. 
 
 What was our surprise when, the music having ceased 
 for a moment, we heard America roll forth from the organ 
 loft, and awaken splendid echoes in the Groote Kerk 
 of Dort! We five came to our feet as one, and re- 
 mained standing while the organist gave us Hail 
 Columbia — with full stops, I feel sure, for it fairly thun- 
 dered in the upper reaches of the nave. We all broke 
 into singing, and the two men kept time with their feet 
 just as a vent for their patriotic fervor! Then came the 
 grand choral, Luther's Hymn, Ein feste Burg ist unser 
 Gott — A sure stronghold our Lord is He — followed by 
 Nun danket Alle Gott, and ending with the National 
 Hymn of the Netherlands. 
 
Dort 275 
 
 I think no happier party of Americans ever went forth 
 of a June morning from the Great Church of Dordrecht. 
 
 Dear old Dort! We were loath to leave it: its 
 Old Haven and New Haven, its Great Head Gate, its 
 lovely old houses and their carved poortjes, its Wyn- 
 straat, where the casked Rhine wine that brought such 
 riches to the old city stands no longer in the cellars, its 
 Voorstraatshaven, and its steigers from which you catch 
 a glimpse of the great tower. It was a trial to leave 
 Zwyndrecht, just across the ferry from St. Catherine's 
 Gate, without seeing its dainty "Green" market once 
 more. Fancy an old street leading direct from the ferry 
 and shaded on one side by trees, its pavements, for the 
 entire length and around the corner, laid with a bright 
 and perfectly regular mosaic of willow baskets filled 
 with bright red strawberries, darker raspberries, yellow 
 and green gurken and early vegetables covered, in part, 
 with fresh vine leaves I 
 
 But Zeeland and its islands, and the Captain were 
 calling loudly to us to come. The Captain wrote that 
 he would meet us within two days at Tholen, as his 
 furlough began then, and he wanted the pleasure of 
 giving every day to James and me. Ah, little he knew 
 that that pleasure was to be heightened for him by our 
 recent feminine edition of America! We had told the 
 gills of his coming, and they were primed with curiosity. 
 But we had said nothing to the Captain; we wanted 
 to surprise him pleasantly. Moreover, Time would not 
 
276 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 wait, not even in Holland, where apparently everything 
 is perfectly willing to wait for something else. 
 
 The Broomstick was brought alongside the Merwe- 
 Kade, immaculate from stem to stern; — these two parts 
 of the ship, by the way, were ornamented with the live 
 figurehead of a dog barking frantic welcome. There was 
 a fine breeze; the Stars and Stripes floated from the mast- 
 head; the burnt-sienna sail filled almost before Oom 
 Kees poled her nose from the quay, and our host stood 
 smiling farewell beneath the trees near the Great Head 
 Gate. The two halves of the High Bridge were being 
 hoisted in mid-air for a passing tjalk, and the carillon in 
 the great tower was ringing nine, as we left the Merwe- 
 Kade, and watched the beautiful old town fade, like a 
 dream of Albert Cuyp's painting, into the eastern bright- 
 ness of blended sea and sky. 
 
 "Dear old Dort!" Lois exclaimed, as she leaned to 
 catch the last glimpse of that Great Head Gate, which 
 bears the grand inscription on its facade: Be Thou 
 my keeper, God Jehovah; and "Dear old Dort!" we 
 echoed. 
 
 In that, is said all that has been left unsaid. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 AT THE GATES OF THE SEA 
 
 East and southeast of Dordrecht, which is on an 
 island, stretches that intricate network of water ways 
 called The Biesbosch, or "reed-lands." All travellers 
 from Dordrecht southward to Rosendaal and Antwerp 
 pass this at a distance, and perhaps no better idea of 
 the country as a whole can be had than from the 
 train. This desolate stretch of reed-lands is, one may 
 say, an hermaphrodite country — it is neither land nor 
 water, yet it partakes of the nature of both; but where 
 the land begins and the water ends, no one can say. 
 
 The great bridge that crosses the Hollandsche Diep, or 
 Dutch Deeps, is also known to every traveller over the 
 route above mentioned. This arm of the sea was made 
 by an inundation in the fifteenth century, and it is a 
 fitting introduction to the amphibious regions south of 
 it — that are seen in part at ebb tide, and are invisible at 
 the flood — which are known as the Verdronken Land — 
 Drowned Land. Tholen, one of the islands of Zeeland, 
 is the gate way to this region, desolate in itself, and 
 pathetic in memory for the hundreds of thousands that 
 have lost their lives in the great cataclysms of past 
 centuries. 
 
 277 
 
278 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 After leaving Dordrecht and passing through the Kil, 
 we moored at Willemsdorp, for James and Ben wanted to 
 see that great piece of engineering, the bridge over the 
 Dutch Deeps, at close range. While we were there the 
 weather grew thick, and the water so rough that Oom 
 Kees struck and refused to pole The Broomstick so much 
 as a foot from the wharf until it should clear. As all of 
 us knew that this was the only wise thing to do in the 
 circumstances, we overlooked this fit of insubordi- 
 nation which Neeltje assured us was not unprecedented 
 in the annals of the craft. We left The Broomstick and 
 her crew, including the two dogs, to wait for clearer 
 sailing, and took the train to Bergen-op-Zoom, for the 
 Captain was to meet us in Tholen the next day; from 
 Bergen-op-Zoom one may reach that island by steam- 
 tram and ferry in about forty minutes. 
 
 How pleasant it would be to hear once more, instead 
 of the "Groote Kerks" in every town of the Netherlands, 
 the old Catholic baptismal names belonging to these 
 edifices! It is distinctive to speak of St. Lawrence, for 
 instance; we see in it Rotterdam, the great tower, and 
 the doves filling the air about it; of St. Peter's, we see 
 Leyden and John Robinson's lonely burial place; of 
 St. Mary's and St. Cunera's; they are memory's path- 
 finders for Amersfoort and Rhenen. In Bergen-op-Zoom 
 we find St. Gertrude's, with a parasitic growth all 
 around it that obscures its beautiful lines. But the 
 tower is a noble one, and dwarfs the roofs of the 
 
At the Gates of the Sea 279 
 
 whole town, which has lost its former glory and com- 
 mercial importance. 
 
 The wind was heavy and prevented us from riding in 
 comfort on the platform of the tram, which usually is 
 provided with seats — a famous place for seeing the 
 country-side. In this instance, however, there was little 
 country-side to see — a windmill or two, some dykes, and 
 now and then a low-roofed house. That was all until 
 we steamed out upon the dyke and found ourselves on 
 the shore of De Eendracht, the channel that separates 
 North Brabant from Tholen. 
 
 I know nowhere in the Netherlands so lonely an ap- 
 proach by water as this same little ferry-way. The 
 channel is not wide, and we were ferried across in so 
 primitive a fashion that we realized at once we were in 
 a, to us, strange land, and about to be introduced to 
 another life. A rude raft, a rope for lever, a man for a 
 walking windlass — that was the entire mechanism. The 
 ferryman pulled across by sheer strength, walking back 
 and forth and pulling at the rope hand over hand. I 
 recalled that day in March when the Queen went down 
 into the stricken land and crossed the same channel, 
 which at that time was a wild sea by reason of the floods. 
 
 As we drew near to Tholen it looked as if it were 
 recovering from a siege. Men were at work on the 
 broken dykes; the water-gate had been carried away. 
 The little village was saved only because the high dyke, 
 on which the houses by the water-gate are built, did not 
 
280 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 give way. If it had — there would now be another 
 village beneath the sea, and new area added to the 
 Verdronken Land, the waves of which at the present 
 almost wash the feet of Tholen's dykes. 
 
 It has been my privilege to see the interiors of some 
 of the homes of the Netherlands, and these homes chance 
 to cover the whole sociological range of caste. From 
 the Forest House in the woods of The Hague — an ideal 
 royal residence, for it combines great magnificence with 
 home-likeness — to the huts of Tholen is a far cry, 
 and between the two the gamut of society ranges. I 
 have seen the interior of a home of the nobility, of the 
 rich banker, of the professional class, of the lower and 
 upper middle classes, of the workingman, and of the 
 Tholen fisherman; and it was in Tholen I found a cour- 
 tesy and welcome that would have done credit to the 
 Forest House in The Hague; it was in Tholen I found 
 an old sacristan with the manners of the noble; it was in 
 Tholen I found a simple folk not so intent on gain but 
 that they could welcome a stranger because she was a 
 stranger, and had come down to their stricken island to 
 see them in their struggle for existence. 
 
 It saddened all of us — this life that is held by the 
 strength of a dyke. The old church of Tholen, built in 
 the early part of the thirteenth century, the old sacristan 
 and his Spanish grandee manners, the sunken stones in 
 the moist pavement on which the fourteenth century 
 dates were scarcely legible, the desolation of the formerly 
 
At the Gates of the Sea 281 
 
 grand interior, the wind surging through the trees that 
 grow close to its crumbling walls, were a prelude for our 
 visit to Oud-Vosmeer, several miles farther down on the 
 island and accessible by the highroad along the high 
 dyke. 
 
 We drove along this dyke, that in March threatened 
 to break in one or two places, in a wind so great that the 
 trees swayed and bent beneath its force. This added to 
 the desolation of the surrounding country. On our right, 
 as far as the eye could see, was — desolation ; not the 
 desolation merely of homes, but the utter abomination 
 of desolation that one may picture in imagination, yet 
 which is rarely seen. The dykes that surround the great 
 polders, or farm lands, sometimes miles in extent — for 
 they are the lands reclaimed from the sea — were broken 
 and rent in places. The double rows of trees on the 
 dykes, that serve to hold the earth together by their 
 roots and to give shade in summer, stretched for miles 
 to the horizon, bare, and gaunt, and dead — not a twig, 
 not a leaf, not a vine, not a spear of grass, nothing but 
 sand and ooze, a deposit from the overwhelming sea. 
 Once we passed a graveyard overgrown with sea rushes, 
 that bent before the wind. On our left there was a por- 
 tion of the country that showed some signs of vegetation, 
 but it was feeble and struggling in the midst of sand and 
 ooze. Not one living thing was visible; here and there 
 a hedge, thick-set, showed its bare, brown, intricate 
 anatomy of interwoven twigs. Once we saw a turf and 
 
282 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 mud walled hut far below us in the polder; but there was 
 no sign of life about it. We were silent, oppressed by 
 what we saw. 
 
 Oud-Vosmeer in the north of Europe, and the villages 
 on the slopes of Vesuvius at the south, were suffering at 
 almost the same time; the one passing through deep 
 waters, the other through the furnace of fiery ashes — 
 and both just missing being buried beyond the hope 
 of resurrection. 
 
 In the morning of that fateful March I2, 1906, when 
 the different dykes gave way, the people fled in terror 
 to the tops of them, thinking that there they would 
 find safety ; but the next tide was so furious in its 
 onslaught that the water from the sea flowed over 
 the tops of the remaining dykes where they had sought 
 refuge, and then they were panic-stricken. The work 
 of salvation was carried on day and night for days. 
 The families, who were not taken from the dykes, 
 were rescued from the upper part of the town hall, 
 from the churches, and from their own garrets. They 
 drove all their cattle onto the high dyke that held ; but 
 when the sea rolled in upon and over them, only human 
 life could be rescued; the cattle, horses, and sheep were 
 all drowned, the hay carried away from the meadows, 
 the barns floated off, the houses inundated, and in many 
 cases undermined so that they fell. All this one may 
 see if one goes to Oud-Vosmeer. We saw, too, the for- 
 saken graveyard by the church; the hedge dead and 
 
A BROKEN SEA GATE 
 OUD^FOSMEER, MARCH 12-13, ^9^6 
 
At the Gates of the Sea 283 
 
 utterly stripped, the sand covering the gravestones 
 deep beneath its drift. The illustration, from a photo- 
 graph taken at the time, shows the Roman Catholic 
 Church, the hayricks, and the parish house standing in 
 the waters; the graveyard cannot be seen beneath them. 
 The illustration accompanying this chapter I have 
 called A "Broken Sea Gate; I do not wish it to be mis- 
 leading, therefore I give a few words of explanation. 
 The dykes that broke around Oud-Vosmeer were the 
 earth-dykes, grown over with thick grass-turf and set 
 with large trees, that serve to protect the polders from 
 inundations. That inundation, however, that came in 
 March was from the sea, and hence I have given to the 
 illustration the title of a sea gate. Properly speaking, 
 the sea gates are those great dykes of masonry and piles 
 that border on the sea where there is a break in the 
 land's natural defenses, the sand dunes. These may be 
 seen on the coast at The Helder and at West Kapelle 
 in Walcheren. But in so far as these dykes, of which 
 the illustration shows one in the act of breaking and 
 also of being overridden by the over-full sea, serve to 
 keep out sea and not river water, I have permitted my- 
 self to name them sea gates. The great inundation of 
 March 12 and 13, of this year, proved that the earth- 
 dykes, hitherto considered a sure defense, are useless 
 in times of great peril — and the peril is ever imminent! 
 The fact, also, that the great dykes of masonry on the 
 coast suffered, and were broken in some places, has 
 
284 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 shaken the people's confidence. "Eternal Vigilance" 
 must continue to be the watchword to the End — and 
 in that End the sea will reclaim its own and this won- 
 derful land cease to exist. This is written in the decrees 
 of a natural Fate. 
 
 But even then, when overwhelmed and overmas- 
 tered — and may it be ages distant ! — this land will 
 not have existed and lived, will not have toiled and suf- 
 fered to preserve itself from becoming literally a Drowned 
 Land, in vain; for its inheritance from the ages, and its 
 legacy to the ages, remain the same: a love of country so 
 intense, a patriotism that burns ever at such white flame 
 of heat, that the words Dutch and bravery, both physical 
 and moral, are, among nations, synonymous. 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE SWIMMING LION 
 
 It was with a feeling of positive relief, of freedom from 
 a sense of physical oppression, that we drove back to 
 Tholen. After such desolation, even that little village 
 looked warm and thriving in the afternoon sun that was 
 struggling to bring its head above the clouds and avert 
 rain. It seemed typical to me, as I watched that struggle, 
 of the heroic Swimming Lion in the arms of Zeeland, and 
 a symbolization of Zeeland's device of triumphant desper- 
 ation: / struggle and emerge. 
 
 And, to my inward satisfaction, the sun did break 
 through and showed us, standing in bold relief against 
 the dark doorway of the unpretentious little inn, Hof van 
 Holland, the Captain! He had been able to get away 
 on the afternoon train instead of the next morning's. 
 
 It was a joyful meeting, and a surprise all around. I 
 must confess I took real pride in introducing him to Lou 
 and Lois, and enjoying the Captain's surprise which he 
 was too well-bred to show. It seemed to me I never 
 realized before how very charming Lois could be with 
 strangers, and how very well she dresses; and as for Lou 
 — why, she is, I have to own up to it, really handsome, 
 with a stately, statuesque kind of beauty that, although 
 
 285 
 
286 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 it is dulled in Lois' presence on account of the latter's 
 great charm of manner, nevertheless is very attractive 
 in its way. But she is as quiet as Lois is vivacious. I 
 saw the Captain did not know just whom to turn to first; 
 James helped him out with an introduction to Ben. 
 
 It was a merry party that sat down to supper in the 
 quaint dining-room of the inn, and the staid Dutch- 
 men and Dutchwomen, who ate with us, must have felt 
 some curiosity as to the cause of the gayety, but they 
 were too well-bred to show any. They had fish — a great 
 porcelain dish of fish; and one and all carefully laid the 
 big bones back upon that self-same dish. They had 
 potatoes, also, and beer; they ate with the gravity of 
 burgomasters, and called again for fish which was 
 brought in, piled high upon the porcelain "drainers." 
 That was their supper. Ours was a huge roast of veal, 
 young garden beans, tea, bread and butter, and thin 
 delicate crepes, or pancakes the thickness of a knife, with 
 fresh raspberries and sugar, which we were expected to 
 mash and lay inside the crepes. We met all the expec- 
 tations in a truly generous manner, and satisfied our 
 charming little hostess, who served us herself, and 
 ourselves as well. 
 
 We debated whether to stay in Tholen for the night, 
 or go over to Bergen-op-Zoom; but decided for the former 
 as, if it were clear, we knew The Broomstick would make 
 her appearance without fail early the next day, and we 
 did not want any delay. Not that I would advise 
 
The Swimming Lion 287 
 
 anyone who has a sensitive nose to stay long in Tholen. 
 The oyster beds are something to avoid — as well as the 
 Zeeland oysters; and the drainage of the town is far 
 from sanitary inspection. However, we made the best 
 of it, and by nine the next morning Oom Kees sig- 
 nalled us from the Eendracht. 
 
 By ten we were off for Zierikzee in Schouwen. 
 
 Of course it would be a mere figure of speech to say 
 that Oom Kees' foot was on its native heath or even 
 land, for, so far as I could discover, most of the 
 land was water. But I may say that he was brimming 
 over with information about every foot of the raks, 
 and gats, vaarts, and kreeks which serve for water-streets 
 and lanes, squares and boulevards throughout this 
 part of Zeeland. The water was somewhat rough and 
 the sky not wholly clear, as we sailed over a portion 
 of that ancient "Drowned Land." The Captain told 
 us that with a low tide, perfectly calm water, which is 
 rare hereabouts, and a clear unclouded sky, in the waters 
 about Tholen, deep beneath the flood there is a grave- 
 yard, the stones of which may still be seen when the 
 combination of tide and wind and sky permits. 
 
 "Have you seen it?" Lois asked, her bright face 
 quickened into a fine expression of sympathy. 
 
 "Yes," he replied; "once in the calm waters which 
 told no tales." 
 
 We were silent; knowing we were passing over the 
 engulfed villages and the deep-sea graves of unnumbered 
 
288 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 thousands. We were glad to sail away from it all, past 
 Stavenisse with a glimpse of St. Philips-land and west- 
 erly past the shores of Duiveland. Yet all about us were 
 evidences of the recent devastation : broken dykes were 
 being mended; here and there was an abandoned 
 farmhouse, shallows where once were the richest farms 
 in the Netherlands, and stretching away to the south- 
 east the mud flats of the Drowned Land miles in extent. 
 
 But our spirits revived as we approached Zierikzee. 
 According to Oom Kees — it was his native place — it is 
 the best place on earth for a man to be born in, to live 
 in, and to die in. Lois said she felt as if we were on the 
 outer edge of the world and should drop over if we went 
 another mile. All about us were silent green meadows; 
 the long canal that is the approach to the town leads 
 between them, bordered as they are with the ever-present 
 dykes. Tern were numerous; and if the silence was 
 broken at all, it was by their curious cry. We saw nothing 
 ahead of us, and were not prepared for the charming 
 picture made by the South-Haven Gate as we entered 
 the harbor. On the quay stood the nephew-captain's 
 mother, in all the bravery of her great cap and fine apron, 
 ready to welcome us; indeed, everybody welcomed us, 
 from the landlord of the good inn to Oom Kees' pretty 
 granddaughter who was on the quay with some other 
 girls. 
 
 All I have to say is: If anyone is desirous of seeing 
 something utterly other-worldly, wholly peaceful, wholly 
 
SOUTH HARBOR GATE 
 ZIERIKZEE 
 
The Swimming Lion 289 
 
 restful, let him go to Zierikzee! I don't think I should 
 advise a long stay there; it is too out of the world, too 
 reminiscent of the Swimming Lion and his struggles to 
 keep his noble head above water; — our landlord told 
 me that had the high dyke given way, as they feared, or 
 another tide increased the flood, Zierikzee would have 
 gone under for good and all. 
 
 Lovely Zierikzee! How could we have spared you and 
 your frisky gem of architecture they dignify with the 
 name of Stadhuis ? How could we have missed your 
 carillon that rings all its bells on the outside of the 
 Stadhuis belfry ? Where else in all the world could we 
 have seen a barrel-vaulted wooden garret in the Town 
 Hall, and an Eskimo and his long skin kayak swung 
 aloft therein ? Who else but the delightful custodian 
 would assure us that in the fifteenth century (that 
 special period of time I found to be a safe refuge for 
 all the Dutch who told marvellous historical yarns) 
 this same canoe came into Zierikzee harbor paddled by 
 a man who is now represented swung aloft in the very 
 canoe itself by a modern dummy ? 
 
 Where else can one find such a harbor-gate ? Where 
 else such a Nobel Poort ? Where else such an Oom 
 Kees to tell the story of the two ladies Nobel, the one 
 Anna, the other Maria, who wished to erect a gate in 
 their beloved Zierikzee, and gave the Nobelpoort, thus 
 memorializing themselves in a most notable way ? Who 
 else but Oom Kees with the fingers of his right hand 
 
 19 
 
290 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 raised would solemnly tell you that Anna was crooked 
 and that Maria was straight as an arrow, and that the 
 crooked Anna memorialized herself in the left-hand 
 crooked tower, as you may see when you go out by that 
 same gate, and that the sister Maria memorialized her 
 own particular straightness by the other erect and rigid 
 one? All this in the fifteenth century be it understood! 
 A safe old pigeon-hole for archives — that same fourteen 
 hundred. Where else could you see such locks and 
 real gates to be shut at night for the defense of the 
 sea-girt town ? 
 
 And where else in all this world could one find an 
 incipient rival to Strasburg Cathedral's great tower! 
 For such is the case here in Zierikzee. This town pos- 
 sesses a church and tower that, had it been finished after 
 Architect Keldermans' designs, would have been the 
 twin for grandeur and grace and noble beauty of that 
 other in Strasburg by the Rhine. 
 
 This is the so-called Monster Tower of St. Lieven's, 
 and beside it Leeuwarden's Oldhove would look like a 
 pygmy, and Our Dear Lady Tower at Amersfoort like a 
 pine needle. It was to have been something over six hun- 
 dred feet high. Picture a Washington Monument, with an 
 added hundred feet, beginning as a tower of enormous 
 bulk instead of a shaft, and you will have an idea of the 
 monster tower designed by Architect Keldermans. The 
 drawings for the completed tower were shown us in the 
 Stadhuis; had it ever been finished there would not have 
 
The Swimming Lion 291 
 
 been its equal and like in the world. And to thisj 
 little Zierikzee in the island of Schouwen aspired long 
 centuries ago! At present the Department of Marine 
 have decided to add another seventy feet to the tower 
 as it stands, and place a large beacon light on it. It 
 will be a coast mark for miles around. 
 
 I saw that the Captain was enjoying to the full our 
 appreciation of his wonderful little land, and especially 
 Lois' enthusiasm over everything Dutch — caps, cos- 
 tumes, towers, gates, gats and raks, boats, small boys 
 dressed like grown-up men, and little girls a copy in 
 miniature of their mothers. As I said to James, "It's 
 dangerous for the Captain, I admit, but the Dutch are 
 so slow about making up their minds, that we shall be off 
 and away before he has had time to find out that he is 
 captivated. Anyway, Ben is all right." To which James 
 replied : 
 
 "Umph! You don't know Ben." 
 
 It was really delightful to see how that girl drew the 
 Captain out; and he wasn't even aware of it! He is so 
 modest that he would never dream of saying much about 
 himself, his likes or dislikes. But with Lois he was ready 
 to tell story after story about his youth and about his 
 country, the people he knew, and his plans to visit Amer- 
 ica where he had already been. Somehow, it came to be 
 the expected thing that Lois, Lump, and the Captain, 
 chaperoned by Lou, would go off exploring by themselves, 
 and James, Ben, Bizzy, and I be left to wander at our 
 
292 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 own sweet wills! But Ben didn't seem to mind it. I 
 was grateful for this, for otherwise it would have spoiled 
 much of my pleasure in this unroutine-like sightseeing. 
 
 We were sorry to bid good-bye to Zierikzee in Duive- 
 land, but the Captain bade us be of good cheer for the 
 best was to come. After sailing away from this charming 
 town we could hardly believe him that we should see 
 greater beauty in Walcheren. But what he said proved 
 to be true. We sailed by the Engelschevaart, crossing 
 the East Scheldt and entering the passage between two 
 portions of Beveland, catching glimpses on the way of 
 St. Philips-land, of Tholen, and the Verdronken-Land 
 to the southeast. 
 
 The world all about us was a water world. Here and 
 there we saw the mussel fishing-boats on the shallows 
 below the dykes. Once we sailed over shoals where 
 three years ago were the rich farmlands of a prosperous 
 farmer. Now the house stands empty, half a ruin as 
 well as the barns; the waters at high tide wash the thresh- 
 old; and almost within stone's throw of our deck a 
 broken dyke told the pathetic story. Oom Kees related, 
 that one day in crossing this place by another channel, 
 as he was sitting by the tiller, his back to the dyke, he 
 heard a deafening, grinding roar, and suddenly the sea 
 surged all about him. He turned to this dyke, and saw 
 that a large portion of it had crumbled and fallen into 
 the sea — undermined by the ever-gnawing tides. 
 
The Swimming Lion 293 
 
 Here and there a sea-dog rose to the surface and, 
 lifting his shining head above the water, looked about 
 him slowly and deliberately. Sometimes we saw these 
 creatures on the sand flats at the base of the dyke. 
 Above us spread a pale blue sky; all about us were 
 shoals and deeps, the one light green, the other dark 
 blue — sea and dykes, sea-dogs and crying gulls, green 
 stretches behind the dykes, and hardly a sign of human 
 life in all that day's course! 
 
 We approached Veere as in a dream — and perhaps 
 the approach to no other place in the Netherlands has 
 such dream-like characteristics. 
 
 The approach to Alkmaar is an inland-water approach, 
 narrowed to an artificial canal; the approach to Gorin- 
 chem is spacious with a river-space, and in the midst of 
 cultivated lands and human habitations. But this ap- 
 proach to Veere from the sea is unbounded except by 
 the sea, and nowhere is the wonderful atmospheric 
 effect of blended sky and waters and luminous half- 
 lights more in evidence than on these coasts, these outposts 
 of the sea-islands of the Netherlands. 
 
 The word fane may in all truth be applied to the neg- 
 lected church of Veere. If I had been told that what I 
 saw over the waters was some dream-city, some Dutch 
 Kuhla Khan, I could well have believed it. Veere is 
 unreal in its beauty, as seen from the sea. Its sea-front, 
 the glory of which has long since departed, offers, with 
 the noble Scotch warehouse on the dilapidated quay, a 
 
294 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 pathetic reminder of the centuries when its civic state 
 was the proudest in the land. It is best to pass it as a 
 dream; to sail on past its ancient wharves, its grand 
 warehouses, its exquisite Stadhuis Tower — a mixture 
 of Spanish bulb and muezzin tower — its grandly deso- 
 late shrine, its ancient walls and, sailing on into the 
 canal that leads straight across Walcheren to Middel- 
 burg, remember it as a dream of past centuries: a dream 
 that, by chance, you have seen emerging from the 
 waters, and fading away as it is submerged in the evening 
 mists coming in from the sea; that is, remember it as 
 such until you see it a second time as we did. 
 
 The Lion of the Netherlands! He is a noble beast; 
 a noble symbol of a noble land; but nowhere will you 
 see him in such grandeur of struggle as just here, where 
 you find him swimming for life, and struggling to keep 
 his noble head above the engulfing waves of this ancient 
 Zeeland, sea-land in truth ! A brave device : Luctor et 
 emergo. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE BELLS OF MIDDELBURG 
 
 They rang us in and they rang us out, and their echoes 
 will ring in memory until we hear them again in reality 
 — as sometime we mean to. 
 
 We heard them chiming faintly afar off as we ap- 
 proached Middelburg by the canal, and we heard them 
 ringing more and more loudly, more and more joyfully, 
 as we put ourselves into the hotel omnibus and jolted 
 away over the heavy pavements of the capital of Zee- 
 land on the island of Walcheren. They never once 
 stopped ringing, as we drove first through a narrow 
 walled passage, then an old-time portal, and found our- 
 selves in a large irregularly rounded court, open to the 
 sky, surrounded by the walls of the ancient Abbey of 
 St. Nicholas, and filled with magnificent trees: lindens, 
 elms, and acacias. As we got out at the Abbey Inn, 
 they were still ringing and filling all that great green 
 court with joyous trinkles, and trills, and trickles, and 
 runs of melody. It was Mendelssohn's Spring Song that 
 the chimes of Long John, the ancient tower of the New 
 Church, incorporated with the Abbey, were dropping 
 down upon us in a continuous musical shower. 
 
 We declared then and there that nothing could induce 
 
296 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 us to leave this spot for two weeks — and nothing did! 
 Its charm is so great that you lose all care for "antiques," 
 for Groote Kerks, Town Halls, Market-Places, for his- 
 tory with a big H, — for everything, in fact, but for that 
 lovely old Abbey of St. Nicholas, its court set with great 
 trees, its many towers, its dim cloisters, its grand old 
 gates, its quiet inn — a part of the Abbey — and those 
 wonderful chimes that ring at all hours of the day and 
 night; that talk to you at intervals of seven minutes 
 throughout the twenty-four hours; that whisper to you 
 in your sleep, and chat with you in broad daylight! 
 This is not exaggeration, neither is it a figure of speech, 
 — it is the truth of the actual. 
 
 I came to have a real affection for de lange Jan; his 
 personality is a pleasing one outwardly, his voice never 
 monotonous — and he has always something to say, 
 although you would not call him garrulous. Nothing I 
 can write would do justice to the loveliness of this musical 
 chat and gossip. It must be heard to be not only ap- 
 preciated, but believed, and a volume of description 
 would fail to convey a true idea of its variety and charm. 
 We arrived in the midst of the Spring Song; we went to 
 sleep with / dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls ringing 
 all its chromatics in our ears; we awoke to the tune of 
 La Fille de Madame Angot gayly urging us to be up and 
 about in the bright June morning. 
 
 Lou spoke our minds as we sat at breakfast, and Long 
 John broke into a little gurgle that sounded queerly 
 
The Bells of Middelburg 297 
 
 enough from his wide-throated bells. "I'm thankful 
 such a place as Middelburg and its Abbey exists, and 
 that I'm alive to enjoy it!" she exclaimed. 
 
 This was unwonted enthusiasm on Lou's part, who 
 effervesces seldom, and rarely in the presence of a 
 stranger. I noticed the Captain fairly beamed upon her, 
 and said with great earnestness: "But I told you so!" 
 
 Middelburg shows more than any other city or town 
 the influence of the Spanish occupation. It is Dutch to 
 the marrow in sentiment, but it is half Spanish in tem- 
 perament; by temperament I mean the manners of its 
 people, the fashion of its churches and towers, the orna- 
 mentation of its homes, the general gayety and delight 
 in the "joy of living" that shows so plainly among its 
 citizens. I can conceive no greater contrast of feature 
 and expression, of costume and gait, than one sees in 
 comparing a Scheveningen fisherman's wife and a Mid- 
 delburg farmer's vrouw, or a Scheveningen fisher him- 
 self and a Zeeland sailor. The one is gravely earnest, 
 with hard lines of toil about a rather stern mouth and 
 eyes; the other round, merry, happy-go-lucky and well- 
 to-do. The one dressed soberly with only a sparse or- 
 nament of silver or gold; the other revelling in bodice, 
 gay shawl, fringes, white chemisette, gold beads, silver 
 buckles, silver buttons, silver chains — the last three 
 for both men and women. The one is the Puritan 
 type, the other the Spanish cavalier; the one a toiler for 
 
298 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 wages for existence merely, the other a good liver with 
 a reserve chest, and cattle to boot. The Scheveningen 
 woman drags her cart or pushes it before her; the Wal- 
 cheren peasant wife rides in her own gayly painted farm 
 wagon, and is drawn by her own sturdy Zeeland mares. 
 
 This atmosphere, social and domestic, makes itself 
 felt with all who remain even a short time on this island, 
 and especially in Middelburg. After poor Tholen and 
 Oud-Vosmeer, it was a relief to see something of this 
 other life, and we entered into it with heartiness and 
 pure enjoyment. There was a new delight for every day. 
 Each went his or her own way, or we went by twos and 
 threes, or all together, but, as a rule, we met at some 
 hour of the day beneath the trees in the Abbey Court, or in 
 the Market-Place in front of the Stadhuis. Middelburg 
 streets are circles in the old parts of the town, and, on 
 account of this peculiar plan — a result of building the 
 streets around the Abbey, which is circular in form, as 
 a nucleus — one can never stray far without running 
 across an acquaintance. 
 
 James bought a camp-stool, and could generally be 
 found in front of the Stadhuis studying its every detail 
 and making sketches. There never was such a Stadhuis 
 anywhere else in the Middle Ages, and I am quite sure 
 there is not another city that can show one like it in 
 modern times. It is really the most exquisite thing in 
 architecture I have ever seen. It is own little cousin to 
 the Hotel de Ville in Brussels, and, in my eyes, more 
 
The Bells of Middelburg 299 
 
 original in conception and richer in detail; it is full of 
 architectural surprises, but they never detract from the 
 symmetry of proportion. The interior is as beautiful in 
 its way as the exterior, and the rooms contain some 
 wood-carvings worth a long journey thither to see. You 
 may see here, if historically inclined and an admirer of 
 William the Silent, his own signature, and near it the 
 Duke of Alva's book of bloody orders in cipher of his 
 own handwriting and signed by him. 
 
 Here, too, you may see one of the oldest documents 
 in the Dutch language — a charter granted to Middelburg 
 by an ancient German king, William of Holland, a con- 
 temporary of Simon of Monfort in England and of The 
 Low Dyke at Domburg, farther down on the island of 
 Walcheren, which dates from 1253 — the date of Middel- 
 burg's rise in the world. 
 
 Lou, having developed an "antiquity" fad, could be 
 found very often in that fascinating house-shop, near the 
 old Shutterhof of St. Sebastian, revelling in the treasures 
 collected there from Zeeland, and particularly North 
 Brabant. Very often the Captain was with her, as he is 
 an antiquary himself and the best person to consult 
 before making a purchase. Lou has an ample income 
 of her own and can indulge her tastes in this direction. 
 But oftener he was with Lois, who led him a chase all 
 over the island from Veere to Domburg and West Ka- 
 pelle. At first Lou was always with them, I supposed 
 for chaperone, although neither of them needed one. 
 
300 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 being gentle-people, as they are; but for custom's sake, I 
 was glad Lou was on hand. After a week, however, 
 she had some excuse or other to let them go without 
 her, and in consequence I was pressed into service. I 
 can't say I liked it, for it did seem rather mean to Ben, 
 who was our guest; but he seemed to be enjoying him- 
 self thoroughly, was always ready to go with us, or to 
 sail with Oom Kees the length and breadth of the island, 
 to fish with him and smoke with him at all times of day. 
 And the long days were all too short! Lois said she 
 could accomplish twice as much "good times" in Zee- 
 land as in any other place, because of the long, long 
 twilights — and I am sure she made the most of 
 them! 
 
 For my own part I never tired of walking out of one 
 of the Abbey Gates, around the circle of the Lange 
 Delft to the ancient Balans and its nowhere-to-be- 
 matched houses, and of walking in through another. 
 The delight was always the same to enter the dark 
 shadows of the ancient gateway and emerge into the 
 green-filled court; to sit down beneath my special acacia, 
 and, V. hile listening to the chimes of lange Jan, watch the 
 sunshine — and we had two weeks of it — filter through 
 the light green foliage of the acacias and glance on the 
 white cap of a peasant woman, or glisten on her gold 
 cap-pins, as she passed me with her basket of butter 
 overlaid with white linen. 
 
 The Butter-Market of Middelburg is, I am sure, 
 
THE ABBEY GATE 
 

 v*n 
 
The Bells of Middelburg 30i 
 
 unlike any other butter-market in the entire civiHzed 
 world. Nowhere else will you find such a setting. 
 
 Come with me out through the Abbey Gate that leads 
 to the Balans, and follow the Lange Burg for two minutes 
 till you come to another gate of the Abbey. Just opposite 
 you will find an open, three-sided, walled court with 
 colonnades, like Vasari's Loggia in Florence where the 
 ancient Tuscan fish-wives used to sell their wares. An 
 iron fence separates this court from the Lange Burg. 
 Enter through the iron gate, and you find yourself on the 
 pavements of the court from the middle of which an 
 enormous linden rises and spreads abroad its branches 
 like a great green tent that canopies the whole yard. 
 Enter the arcades; they are dim and sweet and cool; 
 the butter-vendors, a hundred or more in their white caps, 
 — not their Sunday best, — are ranged on long low 
 benches against the walls, their baskets of pale yellow 
 butter, unsalted and freshly churned, are on their laps, 
 or at their feet covered with white linen or leaves. 
 Here and there are huge creels of eggs, and all about 
 and around are hundreds of the white-capped good- 
 wives of Middelburg, intent on buying. It is a pretty 
 sight and one not to be found elsewhere. From twelve 
 to one on Butter-Market day Long John plays all the 
 tunes in his full repertory. 
 
 James and I found out the fish-market by chance one 
 day late in the afternoon. That, too, was an arcade, and 
 within were the fish-wives and their wares. They auction 
 
302 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 off much of their fish, and it was curious to hear and see 
 the manner of barter. Contrary to our bidding, the first 
 oiFer is set at the highest price by the auctioneer, and 
 Httle by Httle he lowers it until some one of the in- 
 tending buyers flings a fish-net bag at him, which 
 indicates that the purchaser is willing to pay the price 
 offered! Sometimes, perhaps most frequently, they throw 
 coarse blue and white linen bags, and as the auction 
 proceeds rapidly there is, in consequence, some lively 
 doings, and a constant fusillade of bags and nets. 
 
 We shall not soon forget the band concert in the old 
 Shutterhof gardens of St. Sebastian; nor can we forget 
 a dinner in the inn at which were present some twenty 
 worthy burgomasters of Zeeland and Zeeland-Flanders. 
 They were Dutch burgomasters, and might have served 
 as models for Frans Hals, for Ferdinand Bol and Van 
 der Heist! I recall especially the burgomaster of Terneu- 
 zen — a fine-looking man of middle age, his hair cut 
 square across his forehead, his features strong and 
 fine, his expression earnest, his carriage dignity itself. 
 It was a Van Scorel type of face, or such as Holbein 
 shows us sometimes when he portrays the worthy digni- 
 tary in office. His wife and daughter were with him at 
 another time, and I have never seen such costumes as 
 they wore. They were in gala attire ; full stiff petticoats, 
 rich bodice, low neck, short sleeves, and around the 
 line of the neck a peculiar adjustment of material, richly 
 wrought in colors, that stood out from the shoulders like 
 
The Bells of Middelburg 303 
 
 a huge pair of triangular wings; these appendages rose 
 almost as high as their ears. Their necks were loaded 
 with chains set with real jewels; their caps stifF-winged 
 and white; their gold pins heavy and elaborate, the spirals 
 were like small bed-springs and depending from them 
 were the ear-jewels which dangled about their eyes and 
 temples. It was a rich costume as well as a curious one, 
 and was worn with a dignity of ease that showed how 
 many generations had gone to the making and wearing 
 of it. 
 
 Turn where you will in Middelburg there is always 
 something to rejoice the eye. The dry dock with a great 
 East Indiaman on the ways, and Long John towering 
 two hundred and eighty feet just behind the masts, is a 
 fine sight at sundown! The old Cow Gate, too, and the 
 green waters of a quiet canal that runs beside it, and 
 mother-duck and ducklings manoeuvring about in them, 
 are small things in themselves, but belong wholly to 
 Middelburg. 
 
 There is an indescribable charm about this island 
 city. It lays hold upon you in numberless ways, until 
 you say, and with truth, "there is none such," and 
 give to it your entire Dutch allegiance and your true 
 American affection. After seeing it, after living a short 
 time in it, the conviction grows upon you that some- 
 how, somewhere you have seen this lovely spot before, 
 especially the precincts of the Abbey — whether in story, 
 in poem, in imagination, in a dream, or in a preexistent 
 
304 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 state, you may not say; but seen it you have, and made of 
 it an ideal that, at last, you have lived to realize. The 
 chimes force this conviction upon you and foster such 
 belief, for they are the sweetest bells one can imagine. 
 There are forty-one of them, and, if you ascend to the 
 belfry, you may read on their brazen throats a word or 
 two in Latin, which they make articulate in ringing tones, 
 such as, "I praise Thee, O Lord." 
 
 Often of a summer night, as I lay awake listening to 
 the breeze stirring among the acacias, that almost touched 
 my windows, I could hear two or three little bells ring 
 faintly with an irregular babbling tinkle as if murmuring 
 in some dream. Sometimes there would rouse up a 
 giant deep-throated bell and boom out just one stroke 
 — a sound as if some deep-voiced century in the Middle 
 Ages had called over the abyss of Time to the Present, 
 and itself to remembrance. Now and then a whole 
 set of smaller bells would ripple out and run the 
 scale higher and higher as if chasing each other up 
 the belfry ladders; and again the whole forty-one would 
 break forth into the Spring Song, and fill the night 
 with harmony. Often I have fallen asleep "in marble 
 halls" and waked only to find I was being put through 
 the same musical process, and rarely, and fortunately 
 so, all the bells got woefully mixed and there fol- 
 lowed a medley of chaotic cadences with no tune at 
 all distinguishable. I remember one painful hitch in 
 Madame Angot that held everybody in suspense until 
 
The Bells of Middelburg 305 
 
 it was safely adjusted — evidently to Long John's 
 entire satisfaction, for, after the suspense was over, 
 he flung the chorus of that opera about on the night air 
 as recklessly as a Japanese juggler throws his glass balls. 
 
 I was expatiating to James on the loveliness and 
 chumminess of these bells one day, at the end of our two 
 weeks when we had gone over to Veere to see those mar- 
 vels of engineering, the great iron sluice-gates that keep 
 the sea from flooding the island. We were waiting for 
 the little steamer from Zierikzee. James was lying on 
 the grass, his arms under his head, and I was sitting 
 beside him, watching a lark soar and circle and sing above 
 the green island-meadows. The tinkle of his song recalled 
 the bells, and I spoke, as I did often, in their praise. 
 I was greeted with a roar of laughter from James, and 
 was amazed to see him roll over face downwards in the 
 grass. 
 
 "Why, James Moulton, what are you laughing at so ?" 
 I demanded. It was really trying to have my little flight 
 of sentiment met with such uproarious laughter. 
 
 "Oh, my!" he fairly groaned; "if you did but know 
 it, your Long John has been planning a match, and 
 you're likely to hear them as marriage bells before you're 
 many weeks older." 
 
 For answer I shook him and made him turn over. 
 "Now tell me what you mean, James, and be rational 
 about it. Do you mean that Ben and Lois are going 
 to make up ? " 
 
 20 
 
306 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 "Ben and Lois ? Umph, you don't know Ben." 
 
 "Well, my dear, you have said that thing enough 
 times for me not to know him; now are you satisfied ? 
 What I want to know is, what you mean by your in- 
 sinuation about wedding bells." 
 
 "Haven't you noticed anything?" he said, sitting up 
 and facing me. 
 
 "You mean about the Captain, James ?" He nodded. 
 
 "Well, I'd hke to know who could help noticing. 
 He has been perfectly devoted to her ever since they met 
 on The Broomstick." 
 
 "Her, who ?" 
 
 "Why, Lois, of course; who else.? What do you 
 think of it, James ? I really am getting dreadfully 
 worried about the whole thing, especially Ben." 
 
 "You let Ben alone; you needn't worry about him. 
 Ben can take care of himself," was the truly masculine 
 response which left me entirely in the dark. "Your 
 nice little plan hasn't seemed to work," he added, a little 
 maliciously. 
 
 "What plan?" 
 
 "Your match-making between Lois and the Captain." 
 
 "But you haven't given them time." Upon this my 
 husband fell to laughing immoderately again, and I 
 undertook to enlighten him on certain points on which 
 the masculine intelligence is apt to prove obtuse. 
 
 "Now, James, I have something to tell you that has 
 been weighing on my mind for fourteen days." 
 
The Bells of Middelburg S07 
 
 "Go ahead." 
 
 "Do you believe in love at first sight ?" 
 
 "Ye-es; but I believe more in it at second sight." 
 
 "James, stop teasing this minute, and tell me if you 
 have noticed anything queer about Lou, lately." 
 
 " Lou ? No, only that she is a fine-looking woman 
 and young for her age." 
 
 "She's fallen in love, James, and at first sight, too — ." 
 James whistled. " — And of course she's too old to show 
 it as a young girl would, but I know it's gone deep — 
 and I feel dreadfully about it; it does seem as if it were 
 all my fault. Do help me." 
 
 "Oh, don't worry about Lou, Persis; she's old enough 
 to look out for herself." Then he began to laugh again, 
 or rather chuckle to himself. 
 
 "Now, James, I call that downright hard-hearted! 
 As if Lou hadn't deep feelings just because she is forty! 
 ■ — And I wish you'd stop laughing and tell me what 
 there is in my speech that excites this risibility on your 
 part." I confess I was a little tried to find James so 
 unsympathetic; for, even if it had been my fault in the 
 first place in inviting Lou over, there was no need of my 
 husband's deserting me at the crucial moment. 
 
 "Well, I'll tell you, Persis but — word of honor, now, 
 it goes no farther ? " I laid my hand on my heart, and 
 James always takes that on my part as a mason's oath. 
 He interrupted himself with another chuckle. 
 
 " — The fact is that last evening, after the band concert 
 
308 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 in the Schutterhof garden, the Captain took me aside, 
 and, with the manners of an ambassador, asiced my 
 permission, as mascuHne representative and relative of 
 Lou on this side of the water, to pay his addresses to 
 her with intention of speedy marriage! — Now what do 
 you say to Dutch slowness in making up their minds, eh ?" 
 
 "Oh, James!" Really it was all I had breath for. 
 
 " Yes ; and he intimated that if his suit were successful — 
 and he didn't seem to have much doubt about that part 
 (darn their foreign conceit!) — he would like the marriage 
 to take place before we leave The Hague!" 
 
 "Gracious, James!" 
 
 "Yes; and he intimated pretty strongly that there 
 would be no need of a dot, as he was well provided with 
 this world's goods, but if she had an income of her own, 
 it would be agreeable to him in case of issue!" 
 
 "For pity's sake, James, what next?" 
 
 "Yes; and he said it would be necessary to produce 
 her baptismal certificate, and her mother's marriage 
 certificate, and I don't know but what he said her grand- 
 mother's certificate of birth and her own!" 
 
 "Oh, James!" 
 
 "Yes; and a lot more red tape that I didn't listen to, 
 for I was so confounded with the suddenness of the whole 
 thing." 
 
 "What did you tell him, James ?" My husband began 
 to laugh again, and immoderately, before he could 
 answer. 
 
The Bells of Middelburg 309 
 
 "I told him to 'go in and win.' But he looked so 
 puzzled — evidently he didn't understand the entire 
 significance of that phrase — that I mounted my high 
 horse of etiquette, and told him the honor he had conferred 
 on our family by seeking such a connection was thoroughly 
 appreciated by me, as representative-relative for Lou 
 while she is with us, and that he had my full and free 
 permission to make such advances with a view to mat- 
 rimony; that all legalities, papers, certificates, etc., would 
 be at once attended to, and that I hoped to have the great 
 honor of shaking his hand in the near future as a 
 cousin." 
 
 "Good for you, James, that was fine!" 
 
 "Yes, I thought I rose to the occasion fairly well." 
 (Oh, the conceit of man!) " But, Persis, I've laughed as 
 often since last night as Long John has rung his bells 
 at the humor of the whole thing — / asked permission 
 by anybody to court Lou, and she forty! Oh, but that's 
 rich!" 
 
 "What do you suppose Lois will say?" was my next 
 question. 
 
 "I think her pretty nose will be well out of joint, and 
 I'm glad of it," he added, savagely. "She played fast 
 and loose with Ben, and now she's met her match in 
 the Captain. An all-round fine man he is too, and I'm 
 glad enough to welcome him to our family, if he is a 
 foreigner — 'a man's a man for a' that.'" 
 
 "James!" I broke out suddenly, as is my way 
 
310 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 when, as James says, my thoughts get switched off onto 
 another track, "would you mind if I just hinted to 
 Ben how things stand — " 
 
 James jumped to his feet, thrust both hands in his 
 pockets, and became suddenly masterful. "Now, Persis, 
 remember you have given your word to me, — and re- 
 member, too, that I'm managing this thing; you're not 
 in it this time." 
 
 Of course there was nothing to be said after that — 
 but he couldn't prevent me thinking my thoughts, thank 
 fortune! 
 
 The steamer was approaching the great gates, and the 
 men were laboriously at work opening them. The 
 desolate fane of Veere stood out against the bright west 
 like a beautiful etching, and the exquisite Stadhuis tower 
 let fall its tinkling carillon as we boarded the steamer. 
 As it moved from the wall of the lock the lark was still 
 singing above the island meadows, and the tiny steep- 
 pitched roofs beyond the bastions glowed bright red 
 in the sunlight. We left this ancient port and its memories 
 of past glory, and took our straight course again toMiddel- 
 burg where, upon our arrival, we found all our party at 
 the quay. Lou was looking very handsome and happy 
 with a great bunch of white roses in her hand, and a 
 suspicion of the Netherlands' colors in her afternoon 
 gown. Seeing which, I nudged James and whispered 
 that the Captain had not let any grass grow upon his 
 
The Bells of Middelburg sii 
 
 "gracious permission." I wondered if Ben saw any- 
 thing of tiiis. 
 
 That evening we changed our plans, and decided to 
 remain another week in the capital of Zeeland. Indeed, 
 it held us; we could not have left had we wished to — 
 and we had no desire to remove ourselves beyond 
 the sound of its sweet bells and its green Abbey 
 Court. As we were discussing plans for seeing the 
 island of Walcheren during the next week, Ben sur- 
 prised us by saying that, as his time was limited, he 
 had decided to take a trip into North Holland and 
 see some of the cities of which we had spoken with 
 such enthusiasm. Possibly he would meet us again 
 at The Hague, whither we were going for a week to 
 close the house, and bid good-bye to our Tryntje, 
 Anna Engelina, and a few other faithful friends in the 
 capital of the Netherlands. 
 
 Upon this announcement, I immediately comprehended 
 the situation. James was party to his going and was 
 "managing things himself." I decided it was wiser 
 to express my sincere regrets and refrain from urging 
 Ben to stay. But I wondered what Lois would say. As 
 a matter of fact, she said nothing; but, during the rest 
 of the evening, was the gayest of the gay, and acted pre- 
 cisely as if his going were a source of hidden joy to her. 
 I felt like shaking her ! 
 
 Our last evening all together in Middelburg was a 
 merry one and Long John outdid himself, for, as we sat 
 
312 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 at the round tables outside the Abbey Inn and ate our 
 late supper of delicious shrimp croquettes, bread and 
 butter, tea and strawberries, he ranged the gamut and 
 gave us all his tunes in quick succession with broken 
 phrases of melody thrown in pell-mell, interrupting our 
 merry chat with his tinkles, and runs, and gurgles, and 
 crash of chords, and quenching us wholly in a deafening 
 booming fusillade at twelve, midnight. 
 
 Oh, the bells of Middelburg! Long may their sweet 
 Spring Song fill the green Abbey Court of St. Nicholas 
 with cheerful melody! Long may its echoes resound 
 among the double-groined arches of the dim, beautiful 
 cloisters, and its mid-air harmonies continue to float 
 above the surrounding Towers of Middelburg! 
 
MIDDELBURG TOWERS 
 
mM&^ 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 HARKING BACK TO CAESAR 
 
 Three weeks would not suffice for the artist, the 
 historian, the archaeologist, the mere summer-dreamer 
 in Middelburg. The town is too rich in historical 
 associations, too charming from an artistic standpoint, 
 too interesting, as the record of the Ages, to antiquaries, 
 too perfect as a resting-place for the summer months to 
 leave, after a short stay, with any degree of satisfaction. 
 
 The Abbey of St. Nicholas alone may claim a week 
 — and one calls it well spent. It is most interesting, 
 historically and architecturally. Its gates are different 
 in style, and all of them beautiful. Its towers are 
 unique; its irregular circle of buildings affords constant 
 surprises; the carvings and sculptures on its walls are 
 like a missal in stone, and the gay shutters to its win- 
 dows, in connection with the time-worn walls, produce 
 a charming effect. These shutters are to be seen all 
 over Middelburg, and they lend to the little city a bright- 
 ness that bespeaks a southern temperament in the in- 
 troducer of them as a municipal ornament. This shutter 
 of wood is painted vermilion and white, in four triangles 
 that have a common centre; two of these triangles are 
 red and the other two white. I can conceive of no 
 
 SIS 
 
314 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 lovelier combination than the walls of the Abbey 
 seen between the great trees of its court, and enlivened 
 by this multitude of richly-colored shutters that shield 
 the fascinating little dormers as well as the larger win- 
 dows. Add to this the six towers that shoot their 
 pinnacles above the tops of the elms and acacias, seem- 
 ing to aspire to Long John, who rises, rich in bells and 
 fantastic trappings, like a Spanish hidalgo, two hun- 
 dred feet above them, and you may form some idea of 
 the unique charm of this place that captivates all who 
 rest for a night within its walls. 
 
 Over one of the Abbey gates is cut in stone this proud 
 device: 
 
 S P Q M. 
 The Senate and the People of Middelburg — a copy, with 
 all the importance of a small city's dignity, of those old 
 Roman initials that hark back to Caesar: The Senate 
 AND THE People of Rome! 
 
 Who shall say, after reading this on the walls of 
 Middelburg's pious heart, that the Dutch are not aware 
 of their own municipal dignity .? 
 
 We smiled as we read it one morning, for it did seem 
 such a far cry from little Middelburg to the Roman 
 Republic; but an hour or two later we had good and 
 sufficient reason to change our minds, and to feel that 
 Rome with its grandeur was not such a very distant 
 connection of this same little Dutch capital. 
 
 We came across in Wagenaar Straat the rooms of the 
 
Harking Back to Caesar 315 
 
 Zeeland Scientific Society, and to the courteous curator 
 we owe much of our enlightenment in regard to the 
 Roman "finds" near Middelburg on the coast of Wal- 
 cheren. These finds bring one very near to that same 
 Roman Empire-Republic, and, after examining them, a 
 trip to Domburg down on the island is full of interest. 
 
 Motley, in his introduction to The Rise of the Dutch 
 Republic, says: "These islands [meaning the islands of 
 Zeeland] were not known to the Romans." I may not 
 dispute John Lothrop Motley, for I am an ignoramus, and 
 he is a charming erudite; but this was written many years 
 ago, and there has been found since then such indu- 
 bitable evidence of Roman occupation on this island, 
 at least, that with the small map, which the curator 
 made with his own hand and gave to me, and the 
 evidence of our four eyes, James' and mine, to prove 
 that the "finds" are real, I may, perhaps, be permitted 
 to write a few words on this subject, which both of us 
 found intensely interesting, without arrogating to my- 
 self either the knowledge or the privilege of the historian 
 and archxologist. 
 
 The steam-tram runs down to Domburg — the 
 jumping-ofF place for the southern part of the Nether- 
 lands. The journey is made in something like forty- 
 five minutes, and every foot of the way is full of interest. 
 There are many little towns along the route, and the 
 island life and the island costumes are seen in full force 
 and glory — for the whole population turns out to meet 
 
316 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 the train, the event of the day in these isolated places. 
 After passing West Kapelle we soon come to Domburg, 
 at present a small sea-coast hamlet which is struggling 
 into prominence as a summer resort — save the name 
 and the place! 
 
 Burg signifies primarily stronghold or citadel, and 
 Dom signifies cathedral or minster; but the citadel was 
 often incorporated in the city and the minster of old 
 was the temple; hence we find in Domburg, The City 
 of the Temple. The topography of Ancient Domburg, 
 plus the "finds" to be seen in the rooms of the Society, 
 lead to the conclusion that in Roman times there was 
 here on this desolate coast — not far from the shores of 
 France and England — a Roman city and Roman 
 Temple. 
 
 If the reader will turn to the Plan of Ancient Dom- 
 burg, he will see at once the reason for this statement. 
 It shows the sea-shore of the Island of Walcheren and 
 the remains of an ancient Domburg, long lost beneath 
 the waves, and the site of the old Roman Temple. 
 
 The dunes here are not so very high, but they form at 
 the present time a bulwark against the ever-threatening 
 North Sea. To the southeast you will find that the 
 dunes have been nearly washed away, and, if you will fol- 
 low along the road marked "to West Kapelle," you will 
 come to the spot where here are no dunes and the great- 
 est piece of sea-dyke engineering in the world begins and 
 extends for three kilometres till it meets the dunes again. 
 
i_ 
 c 5 
 
 1- E 
 
 CD O 
 
 ID 
 
 o 
 
 c 
 
 _c 
 
 m 
 
 0-) 
 
 E 
 
 01 
 
 (D 
 
 L, 
 
 <J-) 
 
 a; 
 
 V 
 
 -C 
 
Harking Back to Caesar 317 
 
 The chain is as strong as its weakest link. One is 
 reminded of this when one sees the Hfe of Zeeland 
 dependent on the strength of this dyke and the staying 
 power of the ever-shifting dunes. 
 
 The shoals beyond the boat-channel were at one time, 
 presumably, connected with the site of an ancient city by 
 the Roman Road, the remains of which have been discov- 
 ered at low tide. All the finds in the possession of the 
 Society have been made necessarily at low water and found 
 beneath the sand and on the shoals. The altar to the 
 goddess Nehalennia, whoever she may be, is seen in 
 this collection, as well as many beautiful stones from 
 the ancient Temple. The coins, alone, are convincing 
 as circumstantial evidence of Roman occupation or 
 Roman settlement. They are very beautiful; I do not 
 remember to have seen in Italy more perfect ones. 
 The oldest dates from Alexander the Great, and there 
 are many Greek coins. There is one of a late date 
 — it is Nero's mintage ! Between these two periods we 
 find a very thesaurus of telltale coins, most of them in a 
 fine state of preservation. There are also Roman or- 
 naments of gold exquisitely wrought: armlets, and rings, 
 and women's paraphernalia of hair-dressing. They are 
 too numerous to catalogue — and a catalogue is lacking 
 for this collection. 
 
 To stand there on that desolate stretch of dunes, 
 many of them shored with piles to prevent their sHpping 
 into the sea that has swallowed so many of their 
 
31 8 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 kind already; to know that at low tide some remains 
 of a later city — an Ancient Domburg — have been seen 
 beneath the waters; to know that in the centuries to 
 come others may stand farther inland, perhaps by the 
 Low Dyke of 1253, and look out to sea upon the waters 
 that have engulfed the very dunes on which we were 
 standing ; to know that this watery burial and resur- 
 rection, that belongs to the tale of the centuries, is an 
 historical serial story, the End of which no one may 
 foresee, is to have food for thought for many a day, 
 and an understanding of the difficultes that this re- 
 markable land has to face in order to exist. / struggle 
 and emerge; never was there more appropriate device for 
 a drowning land! 
 
 It was in Domburg that I was welcomed into the 
 interior of one of the peasant-houses, and made at home 
 by its mistress with that combination of perfect dignity 
 and cordiality for which the Zeeland peasant is noted. 
 It was there I had the delight of seeing one of the little 
 ones — a tiny girl of six — remove her three tiny caps 
 and spirals for my especial benefit; and it was there I 
 had the supreme pleasure of putting them one after the 
 other on the small, smooth, short-haired head. The 
 front locks only are left long, and these are tightly 
 twisted into two hard rolls and made a kind of front 
 cushion on which the caps rest. The little arms and 
 neck were bare. Like daughter, like mother! Like 
 son, like father! Miniature men and women at five 
 and six. I saw a baby of sixteen months walking 
 
Harking Back to Caesar 319 
 
 between two women in the Market-Place of Middelburg 
 on one market day. She was dressed exactly like the 
 hundreds of women that thronged in the place. She 
 could not stand alone; yet she was dressed in a long, 
 full petticoat, or rather several of them, a long white 
 apron of embroidered linen, a tiny bodice that gave to 
 the little woman the figure of a girl of twenty, a white 
 shawl folded over the bodice, low neck and bare arms, 
 silver chain, little white cap and small gold spirals 
 projecting from beneath it at each temple. 
 
 The little boys are dressed like men, with the excep- 
 tion of the elaborate belts made of huge filigree silver 
 buttons, and the silver dog-collars of more buttons about 
 the neck, and the rows and rows of silver buttons all 
 adown their waistcoats which the Zeeland beaux affect. 
 
 It is always a pleasure to see the peasants and their 
 children walking along the high dykes; they seem 
 to own the world, for there is no background but 
 the seemingly illimitable sky, and no foreground but the 
 green slope of the dyke. Nowhere can one see this 
 strange life so near at hand as on this far-away island; 
 and on the island, it is at West Kapelle that one comes 
 most under its influence. 
 
 We went there one afternoon towards evening, and, 
 leaving the tram, climbed the pathway leading across 
 the meadow to the dyke. There is a whole hamlet on 
 this great dyke, and were it not for the lack of all ver- 
 dure, there are no trees and no flowers, one could not 
 realize that the structure is artificial. The slope of this 
 
320 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 dyke is very gradual; therefore its two hundred and fifty 
 feet of depth on the sea side do not show. The tide 
 was at half flood when we were there, and we could see 
 down into the water and distinguish the slope of the 
 masonry beneath it for a few feet; beyond that noth- 
 ing was visible. At one end of the hamlet rises a 
 sombre Gothic church-tower, huge and lone and deso- 
 late. The church is no longer there, and this tower 
 is crowned with a light that is a beacon for this part of 
 the coast. 
 
 "And this, too, is Life," said James, as we walked 
 back through the one long paved street of this sea- 
 dyke hamlet and acknowledged the many and courteous 
 greetings that were given to us as we passed. It was 
 just at dusk; the sk}' was gray, the sea was gray, the 
 lone tower stood out black against the grayness of sea 
 and sky, and the forms of the women passing to and 
 fro were dark, too, lightened only by white caps. As 
 we passed the tower the beacon flamed on its summit. 
 
 "And that is Hope,'' I said. 
 And there you have the third person in your trinity," 
 said James, pointing to a sailor boy and his lass climb- 
 ing the path to the dyke, the two little fingers hooked 
 together as is the custom with those betrothed. "Life, 
 Hope, Love; they have it all — and having it, they have 
 as much as the world can offer to any one, from Caesar 
 until now. They are to be envied, rather than pitied." 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 THE PEACE CONFERENCE AT THE HAGUE 
 
 The session was of short duration, and we all drew 
 a long breath when it ended. 
 
 Much to Oom Kees' delight we left Middelburg in 
 The Broomstick and made a straight voyage under sunny 
 skies to Rotterdam. This gave Lou and Lois an op- 
 portunity to see the Maas from Dordrecht to the port 
 of South Holland — a water trip that should be made 
 by every one who would see the busy life of that river, 
 and the approach to Rotterdam. It is an open page of 
 Industry all the way, and as we passed one shipbuilding 
 yard after the other along the entire route, and heard 
 the continuous ring of rivet and bolt and the hammers 
 on the anvils, we realized the immense place that such 
 work occupies in this Industrial Age. Indeed, that one 
 long day seemed removed a century from Middelburg 
 and its towers, the contrast between the river and island 
 life was so marked. 
 
 At Rotterdam, by the Maas-Kade, we took leave of 
 our noble craft and its faithful crew. The broomstick 
 was hauled down and given to Neeltje as a souvenir. 
 To our surprise and delight, — for we had missed him 
 
 21 321 
 
322 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 during the last week more than we had cared to express, 
 — Ben came down to meet us and rescue Bizzy, and 
 we had a httle supper on board to celebrate the success- 
 ful end of our Odyssey in Dutch waters before taking 
 the late train for The Hague. 
 
 It was a merry party, and every one at his best. 
 James and I were, of course, in the secret, but it was a 
 grand surprise for the others. It seems Neeltje had had 
 her round blue Dutch eyes very wide open since the 
 girls had joined us, and, after the Captain came, had 
 decided in her own mind that a parting symposium 
 supper would be the place to extend her congratulations, 
 symbolically, in the form of an engagement cake, to 
 the Captain and Lois! It seems that her slow Dutch 
 mind, after seeing the young lady's decided preference 
 for the Captain and her neglect of the young American 
 gentleman, conceived the idea that an early international 
 marriage was in prospect, and she desired to show her 
 appreciation of the fact by offering to the happy couple 
 this delicate little congratulation in the shape of a be- 
 trothal cake. 
 
 Lois had been so shamelessly open in her preference 
 for the Captain's company at first, that I told James 
 it would serve her right to be just a little bit embar- 
 rassed, and that I would let Neeltje do as she pleased, 
 without undeceiving her until the end of the feast. In 
 any case, I knew our good vrouw would not be disap- 
 pointed in an engagement, at least, for that last evening 
 
The Peace Conference at The Hague 323 
 
 at Middelburg had brought about the desired consum- 
 mation on the Captain's part, and made Lou just about 
 the happiest woman of forty in the world. She and I 
 sat up till three on that morning, talking it all over, as 
 women will, and Long John kept us company with all 
 his merry bells which, Lou confided to me, seemed the 
 first time she heard them to be forerunners of her own 
 marriage bells! Think of that for sentiment at two 
 score! James had determined to announce the engage- 
 ment at this little farewell supper, and Ben's coming so 
 unexpectedly added to our enjoyment of the complica- 
 tion. James rubbed his hands in his glee. 
 
 "I'll get even with that little minx!" he declared, as 
 he took a private view of the cake. 
 
 "I doubt if you can," I replied, and turned to watch 
 her drape the Stars and Stripes, that had waved so 
 proudly at our masthead, into a kind of canopy at one 
 end of the cabin table. Lou was arranging the Nether- 
 lands colors above the Captain's seat. I had con- 
 tributed my mite in Dutch roses and lilies — such roses as 
 one seldom sees out of Holland; for the whole land is a 
 veritable rose garden in June and July, and only those 
 who have seen the great rose trees, with their hundreds 
 of blossoms, in the gardens of Middelburg, or the hedges 
 of white lilies about the vegetable gardens near Souburg 
 on the way to Flushing, can form an idea of the luxuriant 
 growth of these special flowers that grace the Nether- 
 lands. 
 
324 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 Of course we had toasts for every one and everything: 
 Our Flag and our President, and our Land, and the 
 Queen of the Netherlands, and The Broomstick — by 
 the way, the name of that worthy craft was "Martha, 
 Middelburg," and we always spoke of her to others as 
 "The Martha Middelburg." When we arrived at this 
 toast, of course Com Kees, the nephew-captain and his 
 wife, Neeltje, were summoned, and toasts drunk to one 
 and all. It was then Neeltje presented her cake deco- 
 rated with the Dutch and American colors flying from 
 a sugar-mast that was set in a sugar-tjalk — and two 
 fat Dutch sugar Cupids were poling the boat through a 
 sea of frosting! It was a masterpiece. Oom Kees was 
 not to be outdone, and laid before Lois and Lou and me 
 little bouquets cut by his own jackknife out of turnips, 
 carrots, and beets — all made into lilies, roses, and pinks! 
 
 Lois began to blush, as the cake was placed before 
 her and she saw significant looks exchanged between 
 Oom Kees and Ben. Her cheeks rivalled the beet-rose 
 in her bouquet as she caught the merry twinkle in the 
 Captain's eye. Then James rose and gave, "The Dutch 
 Army." We all came to our feet, and the Captain re- 
 sponded like the true-hearted gentleman and brave 
 officer that he is: "The Stars and Stripes — and" (look- 
 ing straight at Lou) "the one I love who was born under 
 them!" 
 
 "Now, I call that fine!" James exclaimed, joyfully, 
 getting hold of both his hands and wringing them hard; 
 
The Peace Conference at The Hague 326 
 
 then confusion reigned for ten minutes. In the end, 
 when something like order came out of this joyful chaos, 
 and we could hear ourselves think between the mad 
 yelps of the two dogs — to poor Lump, Lois had given a 
 bone tied with the Netherlands colors, and another, tied 
 with our red, white, and blue, to Bizzy — we enlightened 
 our crew, and the cake was cut with great rejoicing. 
 
 "Now, Lou," said James, as he took his piece of cake 
 from her, "you'll have to live under these colors here- 
 after ;" he touched the tiny Dutch pennant on the 
 sugar-tjalk. 
 
 "No, James, I shall aWays sail 'under two flags,'" 
 said Lou, her face fairly radiant with happiness. 
 
 "A brave answer," said the Captain, smiling at her. 
 Then he turned to Lois. "And you, Miss Lois, how 
 will it be with you ? " 
 
 "Only the Stars and Stripes for me," she said, proudly, 
 and rather earnestly for her, "for I love them, and 
 everything beneath them." 
 
 She saw at once she had made a slip, for Ben was 
 sitting directly under the draped banner. But she only 
 held her head a little higher. The Captain, however, 
 leaned half over the table, and with his true-hearted 
 daring, said pleasantly: 
 
 "Does that apply in the present instance, Miss Lois ? 
 If so, Mr. Hardon is as happy a man as I am." 
 
 The dear man! He had read that girl like an open 
 book from the beginning! I think we all held our 
 
326 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 breath for a moment till the answer came. I took one 
 look at Ben and saw that he was white to the lips, and 
 Lois' cheeks like the lily at her breast. But she an- 
 swered steadily, looking the Captain squarely in the 
 eyes: "It is perfectly true what I said, but it does not 
 of necessity make Mr. Harden happy in the same way 
 that you are." 
 
 "That's right, Lois, stick by your colors, little girl," 
 said James, heartily, to relieve the situation, and pro- 
 posed that we go up on deck — and chain up the dogs! 
 Now wasn't that like a man ? But I couldn't blame 
 him, for they gave us no peace after Neeltje brought 
 them in. 
 
 We had another welcome that night on reaching 
 The Hague and The Stork's Nest. Our Tryntje and 
 Anna Engelina were at the station to meet us and our 
 ■werkvrouw at the house. Lou declared she would rent 
 that house, if possible, and remain there after her mar- 
 riage as long as the Captain was stationed in The 
 Hague. Within ten minutes Lois and Anna Engelina 
 were fast friends. 
 
 "James," I said, when, late that night, we had our 
 first minute to talk things over, "do you think she 
 meant it ?" 
 
 "Meant it.? Of course she did! She knew it was 
 then or never with her happiness. She knows Ben well 
 
The Peace Conference at The Hague 327 
 
 enough to understand that her answer was a Ufe or 
 death one for him, and that he would put up with no 
 more nonsense." 
 
 "But he's so quiet and undemonstrative, you never 
 can tell how he takes things. No one would ever know 
 he cared so." 
 
 "Umph! You don't know Ben," was the usual reply; 
 and I changed the subject, for James' answers were 
 getting to be slightly monotonous, and I made the 
 statement in my first sentence that there was no monot- 
 ony in our lives. "Well, the Captain is just grand. 
 Who would ever have thought of his seeing through all 
 her manoeuvring in that fashion!" 
 
 "The Captain's a brick, and I shall be only too happy 
 to introduce him as a relation in America. By the way, 
 has Lou said anything about their being married here ? 
 You know I'm due at home by the middle of next 
 month, and I can't wait for a Dutch wedding even; 
 then there are the papers and all that rigmarole." 
 
 "No; Lou told me last night that she wanted to be 
 married in America, and would wait till the Captain 
 came over in the spring." 
 
 "That shows her common sense. What are you going 
 to do to-morrow with them all .? " 
 
 "Lou and Lois want to go out to the Peace Confer- 
 ence Palace in the Forest." 
 
 "We'll make up the party early, and I guess Ben will 
 join us." 
 
328 Through the Gates of the Netherlands 
 
 " Wild horses couldn't keep him at home after last 
 night," I said, perhaps a little too emphatically, for 
 James answered: 
 
 "Umph! You don't know Ben." And, hearing this, 
 I subsided — once and for all. 
 
 I don't know whether James will get the award for 
 the designs for the new Peace Conference buildings for 
 The Hague or not. But neither he nor any other man 
 can do anything better than the House in the Forest, 
 huis ten Bosch, as the Dutch call it, where the first 
 Peace Conference was held. It is very beautiful there 
 in summer. The great trees of the forest make a green 
 twilight of the whole place, and the vyver, or pond, in 
 their midst looks like a scene from A Midsummer 
 Night's Dream. The House itself is filled with art 
 treasures, and yet with all its magnificence it has a 
 home look. We were admiring the great Orange Room 
 where the Peace Representatives met — a fitting place 
 for so high a mission — and the noble series of paint- 
 ings by Jordaens that apotheosize Peace, when I noticed 
 that Ben and Lois were missing. They were gone but 
 a few minutes; then they made their appearance — and 
 we had only to look into their faces to read the result 
 of another Peace Conference at The Hague! 
 
 Oh, but James and I were glad at that outcome! 
 
 "It was worth coming to Holland for, wasn't it, 
 James ?" I whispered, when I got the chance. 
 
WILLIAM THE SILENT (1533-1584) 
 
 One of the very few portraits of the Prince painted 
 from life 
 
 MAURITSHUIS THE HAGUE 
 
The Peace Conference at The Hague 329 
 
 "Yes; and it'll be worth coming again just to see the 
 Captain and Lou in The Stork's Nest," he said, heartily; 
 and I perceived his esteem for the Captain to be still 
 on the increase. 
 
 "And we must come again, James, just to see those 
 floating gardens of Aalsmeer once more, mustn't we ?" 
 
 "Yes; and the Middelburg Stadhuis — " 
 
 I interrupted him: "Goodness, James, we shall have 
 to come again to go all over it again, sha'n't we ?" 
 
 "That's about the way it looks now, little mother." 
 
 There were tears when we left The Stork's Nest — 
 tears in Tryntje's dark eyes and Anna Engelina's blue 
 ones. There was a suspicion of moisture in the Cap- 
 tain's own, as we sailed away from Rotterdam just 
 three days after that last Peace Conference at The 
 Hague. But we whispered to him to be of good cheer; 
 we should see him again in the spring, in America, and 
 there we would welcome him with The Star Spangled 
 Banner and "Oranje hovenl" 
 
 He smiled at that, and murmured, reverently baring 
 his head: "Ja, Oranje boven!" 
 
 As we passed the Hoek of Holland we watched the 
 last line of dunes fade away and blend with the hori- 
 zon. We knew at last what lay behind them — all the 
 beauty, all the glory, all the struggle, all the toil. Brave 
 little Land! 
 
INDEX 
 
 Aalsmeer, a collection of floating gardens, 164, 165. 
 
 Aertsz, Jan Terwen, carvings by in the Groote Kerk of Dort, 
 271, 272, 273. 
 
 Alkmaar, the Lake of, 180; approach to, by night, 180; old 
 inn of, 181 ; early morning scenes in, 182, 183; a garden 
 in, 182; ancient buildings of, 183, 184, 185; sheep in, 
 183, 184; the Weigh House of, 184, 185, 186; suburbs 
 of, 185; market days at, 185, 186. 
 
 Alva, Duke of, book of orders by, 299. 
 
 Amersfoort, 235; Water-Gate of, 235, 238; characteristics of, 
 236, 237; Our Dear Lady Tower at, 236, 238; water 
 ways of, 237; the Monnikkendam, 237; house at, 237, 
 238. 
 
 Amicis, Edmondo de, on Leyden, 141 ; on Broek in Waterland, 
 166, 167. 
 
 Amsterdam, the Ryks Museum 31,65, ^7j ^8, 69, 71, 173; 
 sights of, 112; the Begynenhof, 112; Catholic chapel at, 
 112, 113; its modern condition, 168, 169; howtosee the 
 city, 169, 172, I73;the village of Broek, 169, 170, 171, 
 172; exploring the water ways of, 173, 174, 175, 176; 
 the Tower of Montalban, 175; the Tower of Tears, 175; 
 the Nieuwe Zjds Voorburgwal, 188; its ancient plan, 230. 
 
 Barneveld, Van Olden, birthplace of, 238. 
 
 Belvedere, 240, 241; the Valkhofruin, 241. 
 
 Berg-en-Dal, 241, 243, 244, 246; the Lower Rhine at, 243, 
 244; excursions from, 245, 246. 
 
 Bergen-op-Zoom, 278; St. Gertrude's Church, 278. 
 
 Bois-le-Duc, 250; cathedral, 250, 251, 252; the Stadhuis, 
 253; exhibition at, 253. 
 
 Braasemer Water, 164; a rustic Venice, 164. 
 
 331 
 
332 Index 
 
 Broek, de Amicis on, i66, 167; a visit to, 169, 170, 171, 
 
 172. 
 
 Cats, Jacob, a Dutch Benjamin Franklin, 46. 
 
 CuYP, Albert (of Dordrecht), 64, 65, 267; painting by, at 
 Dort, 267. 
 
 Delft, approach to, 137; market-place of, 137; the East Gate, 
 137, 138; Old Church of, 138, 188; New Church, 138. 
 
 DoMBURG, meaning of the name, 316; Roman remains at, 316, 
 3 1 7 ; sea-dyke at, 316, 317; the ancient city, 318; an 
 interior at, 318; peasants of, 318, 319. 
 
 DoRT, shooting-court at, 72; approach to, 260; Great Head 
 Gate, 260, 261, 266; market-day in, 268; home for 
 '•Christ's Folk," 270; Groote Kerk of, 271, 272, 273, 
 274; old buildings of, 275. 
 
 Dresden, the Royal Gallery at, 65, 67; the best for the purpose 
 of studying Dutch art, 78. 
 
 Dutch architecture, 99, 100, 233. 
 
 Dutch art, best gallery for the study of, 78, 79, 143; source 
 of its inspiration, 218. See also: Jan Terwen Aertsz, 
 Albert Cuyp, Jan van Goyen, Frans Hals, Meindert Hob- 
 bema, Huysum, Josef Israels, Nicholaes Maes, Jacob 
 Maris, Anton Mauve, Hendrik Willem Mesdag, Gabriel 
 Metsu, Frans van Mieris, Willem van Mieris, Rembrandt, 
 Rachel Ruysch, Jacob van Ruisdael, Ary SchefFer, Jan 
 van Scorel, Jan Steen, Jan Vermeer. 
 
 Dykes, breaches in, 122, 282; entail eternal vigilance, 122, 
 124, 284; devastation caused by bursting of, 123, 126, 
 127, 128, 206, 279, 281, 282, 288; life on, 162, 163; 
 at Domburg, 316, 317; at West Kapelle, 319, 320. 
 
 Ebers, George, The Burgomaster' s Wife, 144. 
 
 Friesland, 20;, 207; farms of, 208, 209; ancient costumes of, 
 215; history of, 115, 216; coins of, 216, 2 1 7 ; American- 
 isms of, 218, 219. 
 
Index 333 
 
 Gates of the Netherlands: at orphanages, 53, 54; Prison Gate 
 at The Hague, 99, 238; the East Gate of Delft, 137, 138; 
 the Zyl Gate of Leyden, 142, 143, 145, 160; the Gate 
 ofHoorn, 199, 200, 201 ; the Water-Gate of Amersfoort, 
 235, 238; the little gates of Gorinchem, 259; Great 
 Head Gate of Dort, 260, 261, 266; Tholen, the gateway 
 to the Drowned Land, 277; the Sea-Gate of Oud-Vos- 
 meer, 283; the South-Haven Gate of Zierikzee, 288; the 
 Nobel Gate of Zierikzee, 289; the old Cow Gate of 
 Middelburg, 303. 
 
 Gorinchem, best entry to, 254, 256; tower of Woudrichem, 
 254, 255; dykes of, 257, 258; the Linge Haven at, 257; 
 St. Jan's Tower, 258; a town of little gates, 259. 
 
 GouDA, the Yssel at, 225; market-place of, 225, 227, 228; 
 the Groote Kerk at, 225, 226, 227. 
 
 GoYEN, Jan van, 64, 65, 66. 
 
 Haarlem, scenery of, 66, 67; "the Heart of Holland," 66; 
 Frans Hals' corporation pieces at, 74, 75, 76, 156; 
 approach to, in early morning, i 54; flower-fields of, I 54, 
 155, 157, 158; sights of, 156; environs, 156, 157. 
 
 Hague, The, house-hunting in, 13, 14, 15; the city cabs of, 
 13, 14; site of Peace Conference Palace, 46; winter in, 
 47, 48, 49, 97; fire department of, 47, 48; children of, 
 48; cafes of, 49; women of, 50, 51; dogs in, 51; social 
 contrasts of, 52, 53; poultry show at, 57, 58, 59; 
 poulterers' shops of, 63; the Mauri tshuis at, 65, 69; the 
 Vyver, 97, 98; the Prison Gate, 99, 238; the opera, 
 100, loi, 202; the Royal Opera House, 102, 103, 104, 
 105, 106; winkel, or corner shop of, 109, no; society 
 at, 118; the Week of Sundays, 119; the House in the 
 Forest, 328. 
 
 Hals, Frans, 74; his corporation pieces at Haarlem, 74, 75, 
 76. Pictures by: The Jolly Toper, 76; The Lute-player, 
 76; The Pkkel-haring, 76; The Two Musical Boys, 76. 
 
 Hempen, panels on the pulpit of the church of, 214, 215. 
 
 HoBBEMA, Meindert, 64, 65, 66, 67. Pictures by: The Mill, 
 f--:; Haarlem Woods, 67. 
 
334 Index 
 
 Holland, Dutch meaning of the name, 159. See Netherlands. 
 Hoorn, Port of, 188; old inn at, 195, 196; market-day at, 
 
 195, 196; sights of, 198, 199; the Stadhuis, 198; Gate 
 
 of, 199, zoo, 201; Admiral Martin Tromp at, 201; 
 
 Willem Schouten, a native of, 201, 202. 
 HuYSUM, flower pieces of, 155. 
 Israels, Josef, his Alone in the World, 80, 85; pictures by, 
 
 at Rotterdam, 112. 
 Kager Lake, towns on, 162. 
 Leeuwarden, 209; chief cattle-market of Friesland, 209; ancient 
 
 inn of, 210; life in, 210, 219; a miniature Paris, 21 1; 
 
 the Frisian Museum at, 211, 212, 213, 217; the Chan- 
 
 cellerie, 219; Catholic Church of, 219; ramparts of, 219; 
 
 the Great Tower of, 220, 2ZI; children of, 220, 221. 
 Leyden, de Amicis on, 141 ; its modern aspect, 141, 142, 
 
 144, 146; the Zyl Gate of, 142, 143, 145, 160; the 
 
 Stadhuis, 143, 144; arms of, 143; artist sons of, 143; 
 
 siege of, 144; the Van Lindenspoort Hofje, 146, 147, 
 
 148, 149; St. Peter's Church, 150, 151; John Robinson's 
 
 grave at, 150, 151, l 5 2 ; the Pilgrim Fathers at, 150, 151. 
 Maas, the, at Rotterdam, 12; rising of, telegraphed, 124. 
 Maes, Nicholaes, 65, 77, 267. Pictures by: The Dreamer, 
 
 77, 78; Asking a Blessing, 78; Old Woman Spinning, 
 
 78; Dreaming, 78; Two Women in a Kitchen Cleaning 
 
 Pewter Plate, 78. 
 Maris, Jacob, and the influence of Scheveningen, 84, 85; 
 
 pictures by, at Rotterdam, 112. 
 Mauve, Anton, pictures by, at Scheveningen, 86; his paintings 
 
 of farmers, 183, 209. 
 Mesdag, Hendrik Willem, his museum at The Hague, 82; 
 
 career of, 82, 83; pictures by, 83, 112, 205. 
 Metsu, Gabriel, 63, 64, 143. 
 Middelburg, the bells of, 295, 296, 304, 305, 312, 314; 
 
 Abbey of St. Nicholas, 295, 296, 313, 314; Spanish 
 
 influence in, 297; life in, 298, 300, 302; streets of, 298; 
 
 antiquities in, 299, 313; the butter-market of, 300, 301 ; 
 
Index 335 
 
 MiDDELBURG — Continued: 
 
 the fish-market, 301, 302; people of, 302, 303; sights of, 
 303; charms of the city, 303, 304; Zeeland Scientific 
 Society's rooms, 314, 315. 
 
 MiERis, Frans van, 63, 64. 
 
 MiERis, Willem van, 63, 64, 143. 
 
 Motley, John Lothrop, on the islands of Zeeland, 315. 
 
 Netherlands, The, first view of, 12, 13; housekeeping in, 26, 
 27, 28, 29, 30; vidnter-storms of, 31, 32; domestic ser- 
 vants in, 33, 34, 36, 37, 38, 39, 42; expenses of living, 
 43> 44» 45; cakes of, 50; poverty in, 52, 53, 121; 
 charitable societies of, 53, 54, 146, 147, 234; begging in, 
 54. 55. 56; windmills of, 69, 70, 71, 177, 178, 179; 
 the shooting-courts of, 71, 72; the Queen of, 106, 107, 
 114, 115, 117, 128, 129, 239, 279; army of, 108, 
 1 09; religious toleration in, 113; people of, phlegmatic, 47, 
 48, 116, 117; spring in, 130,131,139, 223; the water 
 ways of, 139, 140, 223, 225, 277, 279, 292, 321; 
 more inclusive term than Holland, 159; lakes of, 161, 
 180, 223; ancient life of, 187, 188; changes in, 188, 
 189, 231; inns of, 197; Bible inscriptions in, 201; women 
 of, 2 1 1 ; memorial medals of, 213, 214, 267; monuments 
 in, 214; Spanish influence in, 216; general plan of the 
 cities and towns, 229, 230, 231; neglect of ancient build- 
 ings in, 233, 234; flatness of the country, 239; homes of, 
 280; flowers of, 323. 
 
 North Brabant, 249; Ascension Day in, 249, 250; people 
 of, 252. 
 
 North Sea, Heinrich Heine on the, 83, 94; danger to Hol- 
 land, 124, 125, 207; storms on, 125, 126, 127, 206. 
 
 Nymecen, 23 9; beauty of, 240; a Little Rome, 240; the 
 Waal at, 240, 243; Belvedere, 240; Berg en Dal, 241, 
 243; Lent, 246; cakes of, 248; voyage from, to Dord- 
 recht, 248. 
 
 Orange, William of, scene of his death, 138; tomb of, 138, 
 219; signature of, 299. 
 
336 Index 
 
 OuD-VosMEER, desolation at, caused by inundation, 282, 283; 
 
 the Sea-gate of, 283. 
 OuDE Wetering, 163, 164; Braassemer Water, 164. 
 Poultry, in Dutch art, 58, 60, 64. 
 
 Rembrandt, 65, 68, 69, 72, 73, 74, 76, 78, 95, 143, 216, 
 230; his father, 68, 69; influence of windmills oh, 70; 
 psychology of, 70; inspiration from the shooting-courts of 
 Holland, 71, 72; folio of sketches by, 73; his pupils, 76, 
 77; his pictures at Dresden, 78; favorite pictures by, 79, 
 80; the Amsterdam of, I 7 5 ; monument to, 214. Pictures 
 by: The Night Watch, 68, 71, 72, 96, 216; The Lesson 
 in Anatomy, 68; The Stone Bridge, 71, 79, 173; Tower 
 of Town House Amsterdam after the fire taken from the 
 City Scales, 73; Susanna in the Bath, 75; Miller of 
 Leyden, 79; Ganymede and the Eagle, 79. 
 
 Robinson, John, grave of, at Leyden, 150, 151, 152, 278. 
 
 Romans, the, and the Zeeland Islands, 315, 316, 317. 
 
 Rotterdam, St. Lawrence's Tovs'er, lll; Boymans Museum, 
 III; boats at, 134, 135; New Pilgrim Fathers in, 135, 
 136; the approach to, 321. 
 
 Ryks Museum, the, at Amsterdam, 65, 67, 68, 69, 71, 173. 
 
 Ryn, Harmen Gerritszoon van, supposed portrait of, 68, 69, 7 1 . 
 
 RuisDAEL, Jacob van, 64, 65, 66, 78. Pictures by: Lake of 
 Haarlem, 67; View of Haarlem, 67, 154; Forest Scene, 
 67; Landscape with Watermill, 67. 
 
 RuYscH, Rachel, flower pieces of, 155. 
 
 ScHEFFER, Ary, pictures by, at Rotterdam, 111. 
 
 ScHEVENINGEN, l6, I7, 18, 8I; Villa at, I7, 20, 21, 22, 23; 
 
 women of, 19, 86, lOO; houses and gardens of, 20; views 
 at, 20, 24, 31, 87; the inspiration of artists, 81, 86; 82, 
 85, 86; influence of, in the pictures of Mesdag, 83, of 
 Maris, 85, of Artz, 85, of Bloomers, 85, of Sadee, 85, 
 and Israels, 85; the ancient part of the town, 87; Sunday 
 in, 89, 90, 93, 94; life of the people, 90, 91, 93; do- 
 mestic interiors of, 92; the Old Church and its services. 
 
Index 337 
 
 ScHEVENiNGEN — Continued: 
 
 94,95,96; the Oude Scheveningsche Weg, 100, 115; 
 New Year callers at, 120, 121. 
 
 ScHouTEN, Willem, a native of Hoorn, 201, 202. 
 
 ScoREL, Jan van, picture by, at Rotterdam, 112; his Pilgrims to 
 Jerusalem at Utrecht, 231. 
 
 Stavoren, 205; its ancient glory, 206, 207. 
 
 Steen, Jan, paintings by, in the Mauritshuis at The Hague, 60; 
 
 grave at Ley den, 78. 
 Tholen, the gateway to the Drowned Land, 277; approach to, 
 
 279; women of, 280; people of, 280; old church at, 280; 
 
 desolation of the scenery, 281. 
 Tromp, Admiral Martin, 136, 201. 
 Utrecht, 228; country around, 231; the bridges at, 231; its 
 
 canals, 221 ; history of, 232; Cathedral, 232, 233; Home 
 
 for the Aged at, 234, 235. 
 Veere, the approach to, 293; church of, 293, 310; buildings 
 
 of, 294, 310. 
 
 Vermeer, Jan (of Deft), 64, 65, 76, 77, 138. Pictures by: 
 Fiew of Delft, 65, 66, 77; Head of a Girl, 77; The 
 Man with the Hat, 77; The Lesson, 77. 
 
 West Kapelle, 318; dyke of, 319, 320. 
 
 Willemsdorp, the bridge over the Dutch Deeps at, 278. 
 
 Witt, Cornelius de, home of, 270. 
 
 Zeeland, the most interesting part of Holland, 129, 224; the 
 arms of, 285, 294; the capital of, 295; long twilights of, 
 300; Scientific Society of, 314, 315; John Lothrop Mot- 
 ley on the Islands of, 315; Roman occupation of, 315, 
 316, 317. 
 
 Zierikzee, 288; the approach to, 288; South Haven Gate of^ 
 288; an other-worldly spot, 288; quaint buildings of, 289; 
 the Nobel Gate of, 289, 290; church of, 290; the Monster 
 Tower of St. Lieven's, 290, 291. 
 
 ZviDER Zee, the, 205; picture oi, by Mesdag, 205. 
 
n\^ s\^*