Segars and Tobacco—Row Boats—“Goeden Morgan”—The Zuyder Zee—By Candle Light—Total Darkness—The Town by Night—Women and Girls—Shoes and Stockings—The Shuffling Man—Streets and Sidewalks—The Town Crier—The Daily News—A Message to the People—Draught Dogs—Milkmaids—The Barber Shop—Drug Stores—“Horretje”—A Street Auction—Selling Curios—They Leave their Shoes at the Door—An Old Grist Mill—The Holland Draught Girl.
Segars and Tobacco—Row Boats—“Goeden Morgan”—The Zuyder Zee—By Candle Light—Total Darkness—The Town by Night—Women and Girls—Shoes and Stockings—The Shuffling Man—Streets and Sidewalks—The Town Crier—The Daily News—A Message to the People—Draught Dogs—Milkmaids—The Barber Shop—Drug Stores—“Horretje”—A Street Auction—Selling Curios—They Leave their Shoes at the Door—An Old Grist Mill—The Holland Draught Girl.
N Holland, segars and tobacco of very good quality are sold at low prices: it is not uncommon to buy two segars for one cent (United States currency) and should you be detected smoking an article costing more than a penny, you are immediately stamped as a wealthy and extravagant personage. This reputation is easily acquired in a town of such thrifty habits as Monnikendam, and here my fondness for a good smoke lays me open to both charges.
A row boat may be hired for twenty cents a day, if you do your own rowing; with a man to row, the charge is forty cents. We find it convenient to hire a man, who also serves as guide and interpreter, and who rows us to many lovely nooks andout-of-the-way spots, which we would otherwise miss seeing.
The inhabitants of the town are kind and hospitable, and we are charmed with their good, honest countenances. We are always greeted with a pleasant “Goeden morgen,” or “Goeden avond,” or it may be: “Hoe staat het leven?” (How are you?), when we pass them on the street.
The country about here is principally farm land, with rich and abundant pasturage. A short distance from us is the placid Zuyder Zee, with its shining waters stretching eastward for miles. From its picturesque banks may be seen boats of every size and kind, from the tiniest row boat to craft of many tons’ burden, and it is interesting to observe from this point the busy life upon the water, as produce, farm implements and merchandise are carried to and fro.
As I sit writing in my room, by the light of a homemade candle, I now and then pause in my occupation to look around with an ever increasing wonder, at the dark old furniture over which the light casts a ghostly gleam. The spirit of the past seems lurking in the corners, with their long forgotten history, and around yonder ancient cupboard and brass trimmed chest of drawers. I can almost feel upon my shoulder the touch of the hand which has carried this quaint old candlestick in those olden days, and in imagination, hear the rustle of her gown as she stands behind me waiting for her own. It is ten o’clock, and I walk to the window and draw aside the curtain, curious to see the life that is abroad in the town at this hour. To my astonishment there are no signs of life of any kind. The town lies in total darkness. There is not a glimmer of light anywhere, save the dim glow from a lantern dangling carelessly by the side of a pedestrian who moves slowly and quietly along the sidewalk. There is no other evidence of any living thing. Even the frogs and crickets, which enliven a night scene at home, are not heard here. Dead silence prevails, while
“Night, sable goddess, from her ebon throne,In rayless majesty now stretches forthHer leaden sceptre o’er a slumbering world.”
“Night, sable goddess, from her ebon throne,
In rayless majesty now stretches forth
Her leaden sceptre o’er a slumbering world.”
Even the stars are slumbering, or their sparkle has been engulfed by this all-devouring darkness. The light of my candle seems out of harmony with the peaceful repose around me: with a half-guilty feeling I extinguish it, and wrapping myself in sheets of Holland linen, am soon slumbering with the rest of the world.
In the morning, when seated at the breakfast table, my first question to our host is as to the reason for such all-pervading darkness, and the absence of the townspeople from the streets at night. He tells me that it is so rare for any one to be abroad after nine o’clock in the evening, that the street lamps, of which there are but few, are never lighted. At ten o’clock every one is supposed to be at home and in bed.
The women and girls of this and the neighboring towns are thrifty and industrious. When resting after their daily labors, whether at noon or in the evening, they will invariably take from their deep side-pockets a ball of thread or yarn, and with the short knitting needle, or the long ones of steel, continue their work on an unfinished stocking, cap or other article of wearing apparel.
The prevailing foot-covering for men, women and children is a heavy woolen stocking; this fits the foot snugly, and protects it from the hardness of the clumsy wooden shoe or clog as it is called. These shoes are carved from a single block of wood: when they are worn and shabby they are painted black, and a strap is placed across the instep. They are of all sizes, but only one style or pattern. In the larger cities, however, such as Rotterdam, onecan obtain from the manufacturers a painted wooden shoe, with buttons and stitches carved upon it as ornaments. But this variation is found only in men’s shoes. In Holland the ordinary American slipper is frequently worn by both men and women.
The clatter of the wooden shoes is at first an unpleasant sound, especially when several persons are walking together, but the ear soon becomes accustomed to it, as to all other odd noises. There is a young man in this place, who walks with a peculiar shuffle, all his own. He is so strange looking altogether that I snap my camera on him one day as he innocently passes by me. The peculiar sound of his walk has taught me to know that he is coming long before his figure is visible. I sometimes feel like telling him in the words of Byron, that
“He has no singing education,An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow.”
“He has no singing education,
An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow.”
The streets and sidewalks are kept scrupulously clean, as the women of each household scrub not only their sidewalks, but half-way across the street in front of their dwellings. One may thus imagine what a charming and inviting place this is for the pedestrian.
In this peaceful town where the golden rule is not simply a precept to frame and hang upon the wall,it is not necessary to employ officials with such high sounding but meaningless titles as “Street Commissioner,” “Director of the Highways,” etc., etc. No, here each individual possesses sufficient honor and self-respect to accomplish his own share of municipal work, to the benefit and comfort of the whole community.
There is one very ancient custom still existing here which interests and entertains us greatly. This is the old fashion of employing a town crier, who after beating a brass disk which is suspended by a cord from his shoulder, calls out in a loud, clear voice, the news of the day, events in foreign lands, transfers of property, sales and auctions which have already taken place or are to occur in the near future, lost and found articles and the like. For instance: he walks a distance of a block or two, then stops in the middle of the street, beats the brass disk vigorously with a small striker, and casting his head heavenward, utters the phrases which have been prepared and given to him in stereotyped tones. Thus the town receives its news, and the crier keeps those who never stir from their homes as well as the business men of the city informed of the most prominent events of their own and other countries. What better method could be employed in the absence of newspapers? The community is kept in touch with the outside world and with its own members by means of this odd and ancient custom.
I have the pleasure of a personal association with the crier. Our party is so much annoyed by the continual staring of the people, who seem unable to become accustomed to our appearance in the town, and who follow us constantly day and evening when we walk upon the streets, that I decide to try some means to stop it. The proprietor of the hotel, at my request, adds another sentence to the daily bulletin; it runs as follows: “The three Americans now stopping at the Posthoorn Hotel must not be annoyed by the good people of this town. It is not good manners to stare at them and follow them, and it is unpleasant to these strangers.”
The day following my request, I listen anxiously for the voice of the crier, and his appearance in our neighborhood. Here he comes; and the message is rolled forth in sonorous tones. I seek the landlord and ask him if the notice is to be circulated throughout the town; and he replies in the affirmative. In justice to the inhabitants, I must state that they heed the request, and hereafter go on their waywithout undue excitement or comment when we appear among them; much to our own comfort and enjoyment.
Few horses are seen upon these streets: wagons are drawn by two, three, or four huge draught dogs, trained for this purpose. Men are also frequently harnessed to wagons, as well as women, and sometimes a woman and dog will appear together drawing a load of merchandise.
Milk is delivered by buxom young girls who carry on their shoulders a strong wooden yoke: from the ends of this the milk pails are suspended by ropes. Vegetables and other provisions are delivered in the same manner. The milkmaid passes from door to door, rapping on each with the ancient brass knocker, and serving her customer with the milk as it is served with us.
The whole place is a succession of quaint and picturesque houses. The shapes are various, and the heavy red-tiled roofs and many gables have a charming effect as they stand in rows on either side of the street. Each house seems to possess an individual style of its own, and many are so old that they lean quite out of the perpendicular.
While travelling in Holland one is constantly confronted with a sign in the form of a wooden arm stretched from a doorway, with a brass disk suspended from it containing the words:
Hier scheert en snyd men het haar,
which signifies that here one can be shaved and have his hair cut: in other words, it is the sign of a barber, who in America designates his calling by the gayly-colored pole. The brass disks in front of these places are polished to a high state of brilliancy, and being suspended so that they swing loosely in the breeze, they cast dazzling reflections in all directions which cannot fail to attract the attention of the passer-by. Another advertisement which differs greatly from those in our country is that of the drug store. While with us huge glass vases and globes of different colors are displayed in the window of the apothecary, in Holland a wooden head of a man in great agony, with protruding tongue, indicates that here the sufferer can find relief and medicine for all his aches and pains. This head is conspicuously placed over the entrance to the drug store.
Another odd custom in this strange country is that of placing a large screen called a “Horetje” in the front windows of private houses, or on the first floors. The screen is sometimes shaped like a fan, sometimes it is heart-shaped or oval, and is intendedto protect the person seated at the door or window from the idle gaze of the pedestrian. Indeed it often hides a charming picture of maiden grace and modesty.
One day as I am sitting at the door of the hotel attempting to sketch some of the picturesque houses in the neighborhood, with many wondering eyes directed toward my canvas, I notice a crowd of people beginning to gather a short distance off. I do not see the centre of attraction, but seizing my camera, which is my constant companion, together with pencils and brushes, which are as close friends as Robinson Crusoe and his man Friday, I hasten to the scene of action, feeling that probably something is going to happen which will add a new page to my experience. It is true: something interesting is about to take place; and that is a street auction, a common occurrence in this town. The auctioneer, perched above the heads of his audience upon an old wooden box, is calling out his sales in Dutch. The articles which he is about to dispose of to the highest bidders are dress goods, linen and wearing apparel. Much persuasion is necessary before a sale is effected, as the strong desire of the customers to obtain bargains is met by an equally strong determination on the part of the auctioneer to sell his stock at good prices. A funny sort of a seesaw is the result, which is the source of much merriment among the spectators. I join in some of these outbursts from pure sympathy, as most of the time I do not understand either the jokes or allusions. A lively business is frequently carried on at these auctions; but whether the purchaser really obtains more for his money than by the ordinary method of buying I cannot ascertain. I presume they think they have some advantage, or they would not flock to the sales in such numbers.
An active branch of business here is the sale of curios, antique silverware, china, gold, jewels, and bric-a-brac; in fact ancient articles of every description.
As we walk down the Main street, admiring the clean highway and lovely old houses on either side of us, we observe many pairs of wooden shoes lying in front of the different residences near the doorways, and upon inquiry learn that when one person goes to call upon another, he leaves his heavy wooden shoes outside the door, and enters in his stocking feet.
At the farthest end of the street stands an old windmill with its huge arms moving slowly and regularly in harmony with the gentle breeze whichblows across the Zuyder Zee. As we draw nearer, we see that it is an ancient grist mill, and here is the owner, who invites us in to view the interior, and with whom we have a pleasant chat in our own colloquial style, adopted since our arrival in this city. Dozens of windmills can be seen from this point, and, as I have already said, they are used for many different purposes. The foundation story is the home of the family, and in a number of these you will find quaint, delightful pictures of old Dutch interiors, with their odd chairs and dressers, ancient clocks and brass bound chests, old-fashioned china, and tiled fireplaces.
There is a beautifully shaded walk just outside the town, encircling the whole city. Large trees here protect Monnikendam from the heavy wind and rain storms which come from the Zuyder Zee, when old Neptune rises in one of his dreadful tantrums. We enjoy this lovely walk, but what do we not enjoy in this town which surely has bound us by some magic spell; for the longer we stay here, the more loath we are to leave its borders.
One day we take a boat and direct our course along one of the canals, on which there is considerable traffic. Here we behold the pitiable sight oftwo young girls, harnessed like mules, and attached to a lead rope, pulling inch by inch, and foot by foot, a large canal-boat filled with merchandise.
I can imagine no harder work than this, for the poor creatures are exposed to the intense heat of the sun, with no protection against its direct rays, and they have a long slow journey before them, ere the heavily-laden boat making its progress foot by foot shall reach its destination. The toil of the factory girl in America is play when compared with that of the draught girl in Holland.
A Dutch Cheese-making District.
A Dutch Cheese-making District.
A Cheese-making Country—Edam Cheese—A Picturesque Inn—An Interesting Interior—A Thrifty Farmer—At Sunrise—In the Cow Stable—The Pretty Maid—Stall and Parlor—The Cheese Room—The Process of Making Cheese—“I Have Listened and Listened”—A Trip to Volendam—A Fine Country Road—A Charming Day—Muzzled Dogs—The Only Street—A Multitude of Children—Gay Decorations—A United People—As a Hen and Her Brood—Their Wealth is Health—In Sunday Dress—Stalwart Men and Sturdy Women—A Higher Type—“I have enough”—Fishermen—The Anchorage—A Volendam Suit.
A Cheese-making Country—Edam Cheese—A Picturesque Inn—An Interesting Interior—A Thrifty Farmer—At Sunrise—In the Cow Stable—The Pretty Maid—Stall and Parlor—The Cheese Room—The Process of Making Cheese—“I Have Listened and Listened”—A Trip to Volendam—A Fine Country Road—A Charming Day—Muzzled Dogs—The Only Street—A Multitude of Children—Gay Decorations—A United People—As a Hen and Her Brood—Their Wealth is Health—In Sunday Dress—Stalwart Men and Sturdy Women—A Higher Type—“I have enough”—Fishermen—The Anchorage—A Volendam Suit.
O-DAY we take the train for Edam, of world-wide fame as a cheese-making centre. This town, situated about five miles north of Monnikendam, abounds in beautiful old trees which protect it from the heat of the sun, and render it very attractive. All of these towns seem to possess individual interest, and the traveller is constantly surprised in this region by new and unexpected scenes: but the imprint of truth and honesty upon the faces of the dwellers in every town, village and settlement in Holland is observed as the common bond of union, and leads usto understand the happiness and prosperity for which this region is justly celebrated.
It is hardly necessary to say that many cheese factories are scattered throughout this section of the country. At one of these factories, located on the bank of the canal, we see a large barge being loaded with five thousand of the delicious Edam cheeses, intended for foreign markets. We stop for rest and refreshment at one of the many inns on the way. This house is a fine subject for an artist. The room in which our meal is served is in itself a masterpiece. The floor, composed of large stone flags, is spotlessly clean, and the walls are covered with odd pieces of china, evidently associated with family history: the woodwork is as white as soap and sand can make it, and the windows are as clear as crystal. In a corner stands the old Dutch clock, with the moon, now nearly full, represented above its time-worn face, and on one side is the dark dresser, rich in ancient plates, and other quaint old-fashioned crockery. The table at which we sit is covered with a snowy cloth of homespun linen, and the blue and white dishes with the stories upon them which have been thus told for unknown ages almost charm us into forgetfulness of our luncheon itself, until a healthy cheerful country girl appears,and with deft movements and smiling face places before us the appetizing cheese, delicious bread, freshly churned butter, and new milk as well as buttermilk. For this but a trifling charge is made, but we feel that a glimpse into this quaint old Dutch interior, the sight of these brass-bound chests and claw-footed chairs, and the picture of the cheerful Holland maid are worth many times the cost of the meal.
We are much entertained by our visit to a thrifty farmer whose home is about a mile from Monnikendam. This well-to-do personage owns a large dairy farm, and learning that we are interested in this subject, invites us to be present at sunrise to witness the process of cheese-making. An early hour finds us on the way, and in good time a rap on the door of the farmhouse brings us into the presence of a bright middle-aged Dutch vrow, who with a cherry “Goeden morgen” bids us enter. We are first ushered into the parlor, which is a room of considerable size, immaculately clean, with comfortable chairs and sofas placed in various corners, and a supply of delft ware and shining brass candlesticks that fill our hearts with longing. In a few moments we are invited to the adjoining room, which we suppose to be the kitchen or dining-room, butto our surprise find ourselves in the cow-stable, a spacious, well lighted apartment, about seventy feet long and fifteen feet wide. A row of stalls runs along one side of the room, and here stand as many of the genuine, full blooded Holstein cattle. They are handsome creatures, looking as sleek and clean as those which take the premiums at the state and county fairs at home. Here they stand, patiently awaiting the appearance of the milkmaid; not however the milkmaid, “all forlorn” of nursery rhyme, but in truth
The pretty maid with dress so clean,With shining pail and face serene,Who milks the cows with happy smile,And sings her joyous songs the while.
The pretty maid with dress so clean,
With shining pail and face serene,
Who milks the cows with happy smile,
And sings her joyous songs the while.
The stalls are as sweet, clean and orderly as is the parlor which we have just left, and snowy curtains hang above the windows over them, the only apparent difference between the stable and the parlor being that the cattle stand upon fresh, fragrant straw, instead of a clean carpet. From the stable we are conducted to an adjoining building, which is the cheese factory, and to the room in which are assembled the farmer, his wife and two servants. Everything is in readiness: the fresh milk is poured into a huge iron kettle which stands upon the floor,and which is capable of holding about twenty gallons: a small quantity of rennet is put into the milk, and in perhaps twenty minutes a kind of sieve is passed quickly to and fro through the curdled mass. These sieves or curd-knives have handles by which they are held while the blades are drawn from side to side, cutting the curd into myriads of tiny cubes. Then the farmer’s wife rolls up her sleeves, exposing to view a pair of round, shapely arms which would be the pride of a city belle, and dips both hands and arms deep in the floating mass. She presses, and kneads and rolls this thickening body until it assumes the consistency of dough: the whey is bluish in color, and as thin as water. This is drained off, and water is poured over the mass several times, until the cheese is thoroughly cleansed of all the floating particles. It is now ready to be placed in five pound moulds made of wood: the moulds are put into a powerful press which shapes the cheese, and extracts any lurking remnants of water. After about eight hours in the press, the cheeses are salted and placed on shelves to dry. Now for a month it is necessary to turn them every day, and after that, every other day for a month. They are also sponged with lukewarm water and dried in the open air, and the final process is a thincoat of linseed oil. It is a tedious operation; great care is necessary to keep the chamber in which they are shelved perfectly clean and dry, and of an even temperature. At last the articles are ready for shipment to all parts of the world. This is an enormous industry: in North Holland alone, we are informed that twenty-six million pounds of cheese are produced per annum.
The portion of the process witnessed by us occupies about an hour and a half: these cheeses are worth from the farmer’s hands fifty or sixty cents apiece.
There is a little boy ten or twelve years of age about here who seems to derive great pleasure from our society, although he cannot understand one word of English. One day, after sitting quietly for a long time, while we are conversing together, he repeats impatiently in his own language: “I have listened and listened to your talk, and I cannot understand one word. I do not think you are talking sense at all.”
Alas, poor child! You are not the only one who has listened and listened, trying in vain to find a gleam of intelligence in the foreigner’s gibberish. Ignorance of the language of a nation causes it to appear to one like a vast sealed volume,which he knows only by the pictures on the title page.
I have written at length of the Island of Marken, one of the most noted of the “Dead cities of Holland,” and now, let us take a peep at the sister city of Volendam, which lies four miles north of Monnikendam. As we do not wish to visit this place when all the men are off on their fishing expeditions, we choose for our excursion a clear bright Sunday, a day on which the men will surely be at home, and their sea horses at anchor in the harbor.
Procuring a large carriage and a powerful horse, a difficult thing to obtain at short notice, we direct our driver to jog along slowly that we may enjoy the beauty of the surrounding country. We drive over a fine road, level and well ballasted; a good road for the bicycle: in fact all the roads of Holland, city and country, are kept in perfect condition. It is a charming day, and the balmy atmosphere and the refreshing breeze which sweeps over the Zuyder Zee have a soothing effect upon mind and body. This would be a great country for invalids, and those who seek rest and change from the demands of fashion and social life. There is no fashion here; only pure air and lovely peaceful beauty everywhere, with good wholesome foodand kind hearts to extend a cordial welcome to the weary stranger. Added to this is the very moderate cost of a sojourn in this delightful region.
Occasionally we pass a small cart or wagon drawn by dogs, the driver a young girl who is comfortably seated in the vehicle, now and then administering to the animals, by means of a short stick, reminders not to lag on the way. These dogs are not the ordinary house dog which is seen in our country; but are powerful and muscular creatures, as perhaps I have already said, and so cross and savage when roused, that to secure the safety of the persons near them they are closely muzzled. Being ignorant of their peculiar traits, one day while admiring a couple of fine draught dogs which are resting near a wagon, I approach them too closely; my enthusiasm is suddenly cooled as one of them springs viciously at me, striking me heavily on the chest, and he certainly would have chipped a good sized piece of flesh from my body had his muzzle not prevented this catastrophe. Hereafter I keep a distance of many feet between me and these animals, and others of their species.
After a lovely drive of an hour, we arrive at the old town which is as wonderful and interesting as its sister city. It too is built upon the banks of the Zuyder Zee. We stand upon the only street in the place, which in appearance resembles the back bone of a whale, with small brick houses on either side. This strange looking highway runs lengthwise through the town. The street is narrow: horses and dogs are never seen upon it, but there are hundreds of children, who gather in great throngs around our horse, wondering at the strange animal, and declaring him to be a huge dog, for many of them have never seen a horse before. Our appearance is also a great event to them, and the visit creates as much excitement on one side as the other. It is a “red letter day” for both the townspeople and ourselves.
The houses are roofed with red tiles, which exhibit many different shapes and styles, and we perceive numerous flags floating from the windows, and decorations of gay bunting. Upon asking the reason of this festive appearance in the isolated and usually quiet city, we are informed that they are in honor of a wedding which is to take place within a few days. A wedding in this town is an occasion of great rejoicing, and every household enters into the spirit of the entertainment with enthusiasm, as the whole community resembles one large family, and from the least to the greatest, they are all wellknown to each other. The affairs of one are the affairs of all, hence a single marriage becomes the festive occasion of the entire population. This is not strange when one recollects that the people have no other means of entertainment, such as theatres, concert halls or libraries, whist or euchre parties. They have nothing save the individual happenings in the domestic lives of the different families.
A woman whose children are sitting quietly upon the curb stone near us, looks hurriedly around the door of her house, and seeing the commotion which our arrival excites, calls anxiously for her “kids” to come to her protecting arms, in mortal fear lest one of her brood should be carried off by these strange and unexpected visitors. As I look around, and behold the robust and muscular physiques of both men and women, I think any one would be daring indeed who would attempt to carry off a child or any other possession from these people in opposition to their wills.
The women and children here are richly endowed with the blessings of health and strength. The whole population of thirteen hundred people employ but one doctor, who has time to grow rusty in his profession, so few are the demands upon his skill. I suggest to him on the occasion of a meeting, that he adopt the Chinese plan of remuneration, that is that the people pay him an annuity as long as they are well, and that when they are sick, they be entitled to his services gratis.
The natives of Holland are not inclined to excesses of any kind, and they thus enjoy the full benefit of naturally sound constitutions, and are able to transmit to their children perfect, unimpaired health. As we stroll along this backbone of a street without name or pretensions, we stop at many of the doorways to talk with the residents, and soon become impressed with the hospitality of the people, who are arrayed in all the glory of their Sunday finery, and appear at the fronts of their homes happy in the consciousness that they as well as all their surroundings are in “apple pie order.” We are as much interested in them as they are in us, and that is saying a great deal.
The great, stalwart fellows with their broad shoulders and rugged faces are indeed true types of all that is brave and manly. A loose shirt and baggy trousers, with a small cloth cap is the ordinary costume of the men, many of whom wear wooden shoes; leather slippers are also worn. The women are equally brave and strong in appearance,and as large in proportion as the men. Their sturdy forms and healthy faces are rare models for the artist’s brush. Their dress is of homespun linen, generally dyed blue, and is composed of several pieces; sometimes these are of various colors combined in a picturesque and effective arrangement. The head-dress is of lace and is pretty and becoming: indeed many of our fashionable belles might greatly improve their appearance by adopting the charming coiffure of these pretty and apparently unconscious Holland girls and women. These people represent a higher type of humanity than the inhabitants of Marken: their intelligence and refinement are more marked, but they have the sunny temperaments and contented dispositions characteristic of the Hollanders, and though ignorant of the customs of the outside world, and limited in their lives to a narrow sphere, they are a happy and satisfied people. They seem in that happy state of mind, so rarely possessed, in which they can sayI have enough. Happiness consists not in possessing much, but in being content with what we possess. He who wants little always has enough.
These men, like those in the neighboring Island of Marken, obtain their livelihood by fishing. They leave their homes in small boats or yachts everyMonday morning, and do not return until late Saturday night, allowing them but one day in the week, Sunday, to spend in their homes. Close by us is the anchorage, so called from the fact that dozens of fishing boats anchor within its harbor. I suppose that fully a hundred of these yachts are lying there now, and, shifting from side to side as the wind stirs the waters of the Zuyder Zee, present the appearance of a city of masts in a hurricane.
As we wander about it occurs to me that I should like to become the possessor of one of the odd and picturesque suits of clothing worn here; especially one of the better kind of the men’s suits, for I know that this quaint and ancient dress would be interesting to a number of friends far away in dear America. Filled with the idea, I stop many of the natives, and through our good and genial friend Mr. L—— inquire if it is possible to purchase from one of them a suit of clothing, and suggest that if they have none themselves to sell, perhaps one of their comrades would part with a suit in exchange for my bright guilders. We talk to a great many men, but receive the same answer from all: that is that each possesses but two suits; a best or Sunday suit, and a week-day or fishing suit, neither of which it is possible to sell for any price that I may offer. I askagain if there is not some one else among the men who may be willing to oblige me, and learn that most of the men and women are in church, but that if we will wait until the service is over, we can talk with them, and may succeed in our quest.
Volendam Sights and the Oldest Town on the Rhine.
Volendam Sights and the Oldest Town on the Rhine.
Church is out—The Promenade—Every man is a Volume—An Old Suit—His Sunday Clothes—“Let him have it”—An Obedient Son—The Silver Buttons—The Last Straw—An Uncommon Action—The Hotel—An Artist’s Resort—An Unfinished Painting—Good-bye—The Ancient City of Cologne—The Cathedral—Within the “Dom”—A Wonderful Collection—Foundation of the Town—History—Vicissitudes—Public Gardens—Eau de Cologne—The Palace of Brühl.
Church is out—The Promenade—Every man is a Volume—An Old Suit—His Sunday Clothes—“Let him have it”—An Obedient Son—The Silver Buttons—The Last Straw—An Uncommon Action—The Hotel—An Artist’s Resort—An Unfinished Painting—Good-bye—The Ancient City of Cologne—The Cathedral—Within the “Dom”—A Wonderful Collection—Foundation of the Town—History—Vicissitudes—Public Gardens—Eau de Cologne—The Palace of Brühl.
ITHIN a short time we perceive a large number of people slowly advancing in our direction. Church is over, and it is customary after the service for every one to promenade up and down this street. Here friends and relatives greet each other, exchange items of local interest and have their little gossips over family affairs. The sight is one long to be remembered. The round weather-beaten faces of the men, as they roll along in true sailor fashion, the merry chattering women and girls in their picturesque costume, the children running hither and thither, and the gayly decorated houses that line the long street are worthy the brush of an artist.
Truly these people seem to practice the Golden Rule, for no one appears to be thinking of himself, but every one cares for the comfort and happiness of his family, friends or neighbors. The delicate lace caps of the women frame smiling faces, and the maidens in their quaint homespun gowns look as though they are a part of a play at one of our theatres. As the congregation draws nearer, we halt before the foremost group, and having attracted their attention by our novel appearance, ask through our friend Mr. L——, the oft-repeated question about the suit of Volendam clothes, which we are anxious to carry home to show our friends in America. In an instant they all shake their heads in the negative, looking very serious at the idea of such a proposition. Their manly and straightforward manner charms me. I look into the open countenances, in which there is much individuality, and say to myself: it is as true here as in the great cities of the world thatEvery man is a volume if you know how to read him.There is a story in the heart of each one of these sturdy fishermen, whether it has seen the light of day or not, and many a noble deed and heroic action that in another town would receive a medal of honor, or at least the applause of the public, passes here as a common incident of everyday life. These people do not live for show: the only medals which they wear, and which they transmit to their children are the records of pure, honest lives which are proudly handed down from one generation to another.
Meanwhile I stand before them watching the varying expressions and wondering if there is any prospect of obtaining my desire. At last one man says hesitatingly that he has an old suit at home that he no longer wears, and if we will accompany him to his house, a few doors away, he will show it to us. We turn and follow him, and a score or more of the people follow us. What must an old suit look like in this thrifty community where the men and women never discard anything until it is utterly hopeless as regards service?
A suit which one of these is willing to dispose of must indeed be a peculiar object. I wonder if it has that “ancient and fish-like smell,” described by Shakespeare. The fates forbid! Perhaps it is a relic of a beloved father or grandfather, handed down as a family heirloom. We enter the house, still surrounded by curious spectators, and our obliging friend takes from a closet a carefully-wrapped bundle, which upon being opened discloses a worn and aged suit: unfortunately its agedoes not add to its beauty or value as in the cases of old masterpieces in art, as a painting by Murillo or Rembrandt. The clothes are old, dirty, and faded, and only fit for the receptacle of the ragman, but they do not fail to serve their purpose, for while this young athlete holds them out, with an expression of pride and pleasure, a sudden thought fills me with hope. The suit which this young man wears is of the highest type of the Volendam fashion, and is quite new. The flannel blouse with its gay undervest showing at the chest, and the baggy brown velveteen trousers form an ideal specimen of the costume of these people. I must have this suit. No other will answer my purpose. Without preliminaries, I boldly propose to him to sell me the suit he wears, and put on the old one until he can procure another. His countenance falls, and with a look of positive fear, he draws back, shaking his head and repeating: “Nee. Nee. Nee.”
Then he moves farther away, as though in terror lest I then and there strip him of his garments. He cannot sell the suit, he says, especially as the wedding festivities of one of his neighbors are so soon to take place. In a corner of the room, quietly smoking a clay pipe, sits the old father, watchingwithout a word the little drama taking place before him. As the boy reiterates his refusal, the man talks to him in expostulatory tones, and as we learn, says: “The gentleman from America is a good man. Let him have the suit: you shall have another.” At this advice the son, though looking rather sulky, yields, and withdrawing to the adjoining room, exchanges the suit he wears for the old one, and returns with the desire of my heart rolled up and wrapped in a clean paper. The evidence of good will on the part of the parent, and the obedience of the son charm me even more than the possession of the coveted garments. The boy is a noble lad. As we are about leaving, I suddenly espy the silver coin buttons which are such an ornament to the dress, and which are considered a mark of distinction, when worn by old or young. They are rare and valuable decorations, being buttons made of coins, and held together by a link, as our sleeve-buttons. They are worn in the bands of the trousers and shirts, serving the purpose of suspenders.
The coins are brilliantly polished and present a striking appearance. They are generally heirlooms, and some of them are of very ancient date.
In general they are cherished as treasures beyondprice: these worn by the boy are exceedingly rare, and are more than a hundred years old, having belonged to his great-grandfather. The outer and larger coins are three guilder pieces, the smaller ones one guilder.
To ask for these is indeed the “last straw,” and when the father requests his son to put them in the bundle with the clothing, he bursts into tears, and his hands tremble as he gives them to me.
For this final test of obedience I thank him heartily, and bestow upon him a liberal reward for the sacrifice, together with much praise. As he looks at the guilders with which I have filled his hand, his countenance brightens, and the rainfall is changed into radiant sunshine. The neighbors look on this scene with surprise, and many of them declare that this is a very uncommon occurrence in Volendam, as they have never known any one heretofore to dispose of family heirlooms to a foreigner. It is unnecessary to say that I also value the coins beyond price, and treasure them for their association, and the interesting picture which they never fail to bring before me.
There is but one hotel in the place, and thither we resort. It is a small building without pretensions, containing about ten rooms, of no great size, but clean and comfortable. We learn that board and accommodations may be had here for four guilders (one dollar) a day. This hotel has entertained artists from all parts of the world. The good-natured landlord will do everything in his power to make his guests comfortable. In the general sitting-room or parlor, there is abundant evidence that these efforts have been appreciated in the beautiful paintings presented to him by some of the most famous artists of our day. He is a loyal upholder of art and artists. His daughter, a fresh looking maiden, is so much pleased when I say that I too, am an artist and photographer, that she insists upon taking me up to the third floor to see the fine view from the windows which overlook the Zuyder Zee. She also shows me a room which was fitted up for a lady artist from New York. Here is an unfinished picture upon the easel, of an old Volendam woman, in her fancy cap and bright colored homespun costume.
This secluded spot offers many attractions for both brush and camera in interesting studies of figures and landscape, as well as charming water scenes. We would gladly spend a longer time amid these delightful pictures, but it is impossible, so we take our departure amid a hundred goodwishes, and as we drive away, the inhabitants who have gathered from all parts of the town to see the queer Americans, call after us: “Goeden dag,” and “Tot weerziens,” (Until we meet again). A dozen or more children run by the side of the carriage shouting and laughing for a considerable distance. And so we bid farewell to a hearty and attractive people and their quaint surroundings.
Let us take a somewhat hasty glance at Cologne, the oldest city on the Rhine, and one of the largest towns in the Rhenish Province of Prussia. We cannot afford to miss this town, were it only on account of the great Cathedral whose lofty towers rise heavenward to a height of five hundred and twelve feet. How one longs to find himself within these sacred walls, to stand and gaze upon the wondrous arches, pillars, and dome, the stained glass and statues, the frescoes and carving, the work of an endless succession of artists and artisans. Next to St. Peter’s at Rome, this Cathedral is the largest church in the world. It stands upon the old Roman camping ground, and more than six centuries have passed since its foundations were laid. The name of its architect is unknown, and even the original designs have been forgotten. Its interior is four hundred and thirty feet long and one hundred and forty feet broad. The portion appropriated to divine service covers an area of seventy thousand square feet. It is useless to attempt to describe this vast structure whose buttresses, turrets, gargoyles, canopies and tracery are innumerable and bewildering. The Gothic arches and countless pillars form a grand perspective. There are seven chapels which present a wealth of paintings, and relics. In the Chapel of the Three Magi is a marvellous casket of crystal, whose cover is set with precious stones, which is said to contain the skulls of Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar, the three Wise Men from the East who followed the star to the cradle of the infant Christ.
In the great treasury of the Cathedral are untold treasures. Here are silver censers, paintings set in diamonds, shrines of silver, and rare and priceless relics of every description, besides gold and silver chalices, fonts, and other church vessels, and a collection of magnificent vestments.
Many are the vicissitudes through which this wonderful structure has passed, since its commencement in 1248. At times it seemed abandoned to ruin, then again the work was taken up and vast sums of money contributed, and the masterpiece of Gothic architecture was carried on toward completion, untilonce more the money was exhausted. It seems as though the old legend of the architect who sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the plan of the edifice must have some foundation, for tradition relates that Satan was finally outwitted by the architect, and in revenge vowed that the Cathedral should never be finished, and the architect’s name be forgotten. Immense fortunes have been expended upon it by monarchs and others of the faithful. The great southern portal alone cost half a million dollars: the bells in the south tower, the largest of which was cast in 1874, from the metal of French guns, weighs twenty-five tons. The combined efforts of twenty-eight ringers are required to set it in motion. The next two in point of size, cast in 1447 and 1448, weigh respectively eleven and six tons. The magnificent stained glass windows were contributed by famous and royal donors, such as the Emperor Frederick III., Archbishop Von Daun, Archbishop Von Hessen, King Lewis I. of Bavaria, Emperor William I., and many others. A number of these were executed as far back as 1508.
Few structures can compete with this in beauty, grace and elegance of form. How solemn is the atmosphere within these ancient walls! How impressive the picture of this apparently boundless interior!In one of the great pillars is a flight of one hundred steps, which leads to a gallery extending across the transept, and still nearly forty steps higher one reaches the gallery which makes the tour of the whole Cathedral, and upon this one has a beautiful view of the city of Cologne, the Rhine and the surrounding country. Within the church there is a corresponding gallery, from which the visitor may observe the interior decorations, and from the loftiest gallery of all, there is a vast and delightful panorama which includes river and country as far as the eye can see. What can be more beautiful than this scene? Where can one find a grander, more solemn atmosphere than within these walls where the spirits and the hands of men have worked for ages? Where can he experience more lofty aspirations toward
“The glorious Author of the universeWho reins the minds, gives the vast ocean bounds,And circumscribes the floating worlds their rounds”?
“The glorious Author of the universe
Who reins the minds, gives the vast ocean bounds,
And circumscribes the floating worlds their rounds”?
The city of Cologne was founded by the Ubii at the time when they were compelled by Agrippa to migrate from the right to the left bank of the Rhine, (B. C.38). InA. D.51, Agrippina, daughter of Germanicus, and mother of Nero, founded here a colony of Roman veterans which at first was called ColoniaAgrippinensis, and afterward Colonia Claudia Agrippina. In 308 Constantine the Great began a stone bridge over the Rhine to Deutz. From the end of the fifth century Cologne belonged to the Franks and was long occupied by the Ripuarian kings. Charlemagne raised the bishopric which had been founded here in the fourth century to an archbishopric, the first archbishop being the imperial chaplain Hildebold who built the oldest cathedral church, and presented to it a valuable library which still exists.
“The noble city has passed through many vicissitudes, and it was not until after 1815 under Prussian rule that it began to enjoy a degree of permanent prosperity. The rapid progress of its steamboat and railway systems, and the enterprise of the citizens, many of whom possess great wealth, have combined to make Cologne the centre of the Rhenish trade, and one of the most considerable commercial cities in Germany.”
The town is built with long narrow streets curving in semicircles toward the river. Its sidewalks have the peculiarity of frequently dwindling away until only a few feet in width. The great Cathedral tower may be seen for miles, reaching far above the surrounding buildings. Cologne is a city oflegends and relics: old and historic buildings dating back many centuries are scattered in all directions, and here the visionary, the lover of myth and legend, can find abundant food for his imagination. The great and valued possessions of the city are the bones of the eleven thousand virgins. This is the legend: Fourteen hundred years ago, St. Ursula and eleven thousand virgins went on a pilgrimage to Rome, and returning were all slain by the Huns. Their bones were gathered together and brought to Cologne, where they were buried, and later the church of St. Ursula, now nearly nine hundred years old, was built over their tomb. Within this church the bones of the virgins are enclosed in stone caskets, with apertures through which they may be seen. The skulls are covered with needlework and ornamented with pearls and precious stones.
Among other relics, is also to be found here the alabaster vase or rather one of the vases, in which the Saviour turned the water into wine at the marriage in Cana. The vase or jar is evidently a very ancient article: it is much cracked, and one handle is broken off. There are many points of interest in this old city, for here are museums, gardens, galleries and churches, and always the picturesque river with its countless views and pleasure trips.
If one is weary of these legendary stories, or even of sightseeing itself, let him rest with me in one of the many public gardens, listening to the charming music of a good orchestra.
There are skilled musicians in these gardens, and their selections are always well rendered. No loud or idle conversation is indulged in during these recitals. Should any such breach of good manners occur, the transgressors are requested to observe the rule of the garden, and if the offence is repeated, they are ejected from the premises. The Germans, being such lovers of good music, tolerate no other in their gardens. There is no admission fee, but the expenses are supposed to be met by the sale of beer, wine, pretzels and Frankfurt sausages.
Before leaving Cologne I must not forget to mention the refreshing perfume which has made this city famous all over the world. The celebrated Eau de Cologne is said to have been invented by Jean Antoine Marie Farina of Domodossola in the year 1709. One could almost bathe in the perfume here for the money it would cost to filter our muddy Philadelphia water. There is an enormous quantity of it manufactured, and almost every store seems to have it for sale.
A short distance from Cologne, or Köln as the Germans call it, is the almost forsaken station of Brühl. I would advise the tourist to alight here, and take a close view of the imperial palace known as the Palace of Brühl, a handsome building erected about the year 1725. As we advance toward the beautiful and spacious grounds, it is not difficult to imagine the magnificent structure looming up in the distance as the home of royalty. The approach to the palace is studded with marble statues, and the palace itself is a classic example of the French and German rococo style of architecture; from it radiate many lovely walks and bowery avenues which are adorned with fine statuary. Here too are velvet lawns, noble trees and glowing flower beds, and should one wish to view the interior of this elegant palace, he will find that some of the rooms are open to visitors.
Our stay within is necessarily brief. Retracing our steps to the station, we take the train, and are carried swiftly toward the old town of Bonn.
Along the Banks of the Rhine.
Along the Banks of the Rhine.