Broek--A Dutchman’s idea of Paradise--A toy-house for real
people--Cannon-ball cheeses--An artist’s flirtation--John Bull
abroad--All the fun of the fair--A popular refreshment--Morals
in Amsterdam--The Zoological Gardens--Bed and Breakfast--Paul
Potter’s bull--Rotterdam.
I was not sorry when the captain, who of course received a fee for
himself besides the fare, called out “Broek!” The stagnation of water,
and sound, and life in general, on a Dutch canal, is positively
oppressive to the feelings; it would have been quite a relief to have
had a little shindy among the passengers and the crew, such as gave a
variety to the canal voyage of Horace to Brundusium.
To enliven matters, supposing we tell you a tale about Broek, which
I of course ferreted out of a drowsy Dutch chronicle, but which the
ill-natured Smelfungus says has been already told by Washington Irvine.
In former times, the people of the place were sadly negligent of their
spiritual duties, and turned a very deaf ear to the exhortations of
the clergyman. A new parson at last arrived, who beholding all the
people given to idolatry in the shape of washing, washing, washing
all the day long, and apparently thinking of nothing else, hit upon
a new scheme for reforming them. He bid them be righteous and fear
God, and then they should get to Paradise, and he described what joys
should be theirs in that abode of bliss. This was the old tale, and the
congregation were on the point of subsiding into their usual sleep.
“The abode of bliss,” continued the preacher, “and cleanliness, and
everlasting washing.” The Dutchmen opened their eyes. “Yes,” proceeded
the preacher; “the joys of earth shall to the good be continued in
heaven. You will be occupied in washing, and scrubbing, and cleaning,
and in cleaning, and washing, and scrubbing, for ever and ever, amen.”
He had hit the right chord; the parson became popular, the church
filled, and a great reformation was wrought in Broek.
Sauntering along the Grand Canal, from which, as from a backbone,
ribbed out divers lesser canals, I entered, at the bidding of an old
lady, one of the houses of the place, with the date of 1612 over it.
Of course its floor was swept and garnished, and the little pan of
lighted turf was burning in the fireplace; and there was the usual
amount of china vases, and knickknacks of all descriptions scattered
about to make up a show. And then she showed me the bed like a
berth, which smelt very fusty, and the door, which is never opened
except at a burial or bridal. After this, I walked into a little
warehouse adjoining, all painted and prim, and saw eight thousand
cannon-ball-shaped cheeses in a row, value one dollar a piece, each
with a red skin, like a very young infant’s. This colour is obtained, I
understand, by immersing them in a decoction of Bordeaux grape husks,
which are imported from France for the purpose. I next went to the
bridge over the canal, and tried to sketch the avenue of dwarf-like
trees and the row of toy-houses, and the old man brushing away two or
three leaves that had fallen on the sward. At this moment came by a
buxom girl in the genuine costume of the place, who exclaimed, “Lauk,
he’s sketching!” (in Dutch) and stood immovable before me, and so of
course I proceeded incontinently to sketch her in the foreground, she
keeping quite still, and then coming and peeping over my shoulder, to
see how she looked on paper.
Finding it was late, I hurried back to catch the return boat, faster,
I should think, than anybody ever ventured before to go in Broek; at
least, I judged so from the looks of sleepy astonishment and almost
displeasure which seemed to gather on the Lotos-eater-like countenances
of the citizens I met. As it was, I just saved the boat, and am now
again gliding smoothly back to Amsterdam.
As I look through the windows of the cabin, I perceive a few golden
plover and stints basking listlessly among the reeds, undisturbed by
our transit. This time, however, there was more bustle on board. There
were two foreigners who were very full of talk, and who, though they
were speaking to a Dutchman in French, I knew at once to be English.
As I finished up my sketch, I heard one of these gentlemen say, “Ah!
I am an Englishman; you would not have thought it, but so it is. Few
English speak French with a correct accent, but I, maw (moi?); jabbeta
seese ann ong France, solemong pour parlay lar lang, ay maw jay parl
parfaitmong biong.” I differed from him. It has seldom been my lot to
hear French spoken worse. John Bull abroad is certainly a curiosity.
That evening I sallied out to see the Kirmess, or great annual fair.
Its chief scene was round the statue of Rembrandt, in the heart of
the city. Hogarth’s “Southwark Fair” would give but a faint idea of
the state of things. There was the usual amount of wild beasts and
giants; there was a pumpkin of a woman and her own brother, as thin
as if he were training to get up the inside of a gas-pipe, to be seen
inside one show, and their faithful portraits outside on a canvas,
painted after the school of Sir Peter Paul Rubens. A mechanical theatre
from Bamberg was apparently doing an immense trade under the auspices
of an unmistakable Jewish family, who appeared from time to time on
the platform. Close by was a picture of Sebastopol, which professed
to have arrived from London. But the undiscerning public seemed to
care very little about it; it was in vain that they were summoned to
advance to the ticket-office by the sound of fife and drum--one could
almost imagine, that the person of rueful and despairing aspect who
was waiting for the people to ascend the parapet, had been spending
some weeks in the trenches before the devoted city. The crowds, that
surged about in serried masses, had their wants well seen to in the
refreshment way. One favourite esculent was brown smoked eels, weighing
perhaps half a pound each, and placed in large heaps on neat-looking
stalls, kept by neat-looking people. The eels were stretched out full
length as stiff as pokers, and I saw several respectable looking
sight-seers solacing themselves with a fish of the sort.
But the most popular refreshment remains to be mentioned. Ranged along
the street, in a compact row, were a number of gaudily painted temples;
in front of each sat the priestess. Mostly, she was young and pretty,
but here and there, blowsy and obese. By her side was a large bright
copper caldron, steaming with a white hasty-pudding-looking substance.
In front of her was a fire, over which was a broad square plate of
iron, studded with small holes like a bagatelle-board. The female held
in her hand a wand, or rather a long iron spoon, which she dabbed
into the caldron, and then delivered a portion of the contents into
the little holes above-mentioned. This required great adroitness; but
custom appeared to have brought her to the pinnacle of her art, and
she hardly ever missed her mark. In a second or two, the hasty-pudding
became transformed into a sort of small pancake, and was whipped out
of its _locus in quo_ by a light-fingered acolyte of the male sex. I
observed that behind the priestess were sundry little alcoves, shaded
by bright-coloured curtains; in these might be seen loving pairs,
feasting on the handiworks of the lady of the spoon. The repast was
simple, and was soon dispatched, for a constant succession of votaries
kept entering and issuing from the alcoves. If I was correctly
informed, it would have been possible to have got as high as the top
button of your waistcoat for the small sum of a few stivers.
I was sorry to hear that this national festival--a sort of Dutch
carnival, which is visited by all classes--is ruinous to what is left
of morals in Amsterdam.
Before leaving the city, I must not omit to mention the Zoological
Gardens. If you wish to find them, you must ask for the “Artis;” that
is the name it is known by to every gamin and fisherman in Amsterdam.
The Dutch are very classical, and the inscription over the entrance is,
“Naturæ artis magistra.” Half-a-dozen other public places go by Latin
names. Thus, the Royal Institution of Literature and Art is called
“Felix Meritis,” from the first words of a legend on the front of the
building.
Next day, I take leave of my room in the hotel, with its odd
French-shaped beds, closed in by heavy green stuff curtains, and great
projecting chimney-piece. In my bill, the charge for bed tacitly
includes that for breakfast; these two items being, seemingly,
considered by the Dutch all one thing. Cheese appears to be invariably
eaten by the natives with their morning coffee, which is kept hot by a
little spirit-lamp under the coffee-pot.
After this, I stopped at Shravenhagen (the Hague), to see Paul Potter’s
Bull. On the Sunday, attended a Calvinistic place of worship, where
I was horrified to behold the irreverent way in which the male part
of the congregation, who looked not unlike your unpleasant political
dissenter at a church-rate meeting, gossiped with their hats on their
heads until the entrance of the clergyman.
Next day, I found myself at Rotterdam. The steamer for London managed,
near Helvoetsluys, to break the floats of her paddle-wheel; the engine
could not be worked; and as there was a heavy sea and strong wind
blowing on-shore, we should soon have been there, had not another
steamer come to our assistance, and towed us back into a place of
safety. After repairing damages, we proceeded on our voyage, and
eventually arrived unharmed in London.