If the noise and bustle which attend a wedding, like trumpets in a
battle, are intended as provisions against reflection, so firmly do I
feel, the tortures of sea-sickness, are meant as antagonists to all the
terrors of drowning, and all the horrors of shipwreck.
Let him who has felt the agonies of that internal earthquake which the
“pitch and toss” motion of a ship communicates--who knows what it is, to
have his diaphragm vibrating between his ribs and the back of his
throat, confess, how little to him was all the confusion which he
listened to, over head! how poor the interest he took in the welfare of
the craft wherein he was “only a lodger,” and how narrowed were all his
sympathies within the small circle of bottled porter, and brandy and
water, the steward’s infallibles in suffering.
I lay in my narrow crib, moody pondering over these things, now
wondering within myself, what charms of travel could recompense such
agonies as these; now muttering a curse, “not loud, but deep,” on the
heavy gentleman, whose ponderous tread on the quarter-deck seemed to
promenade up and down the surface of my own pericranium: the greasy
steward, the jolly captain, the brown-faced, black-whiskered king’s
messenger, who snored away on the sofa, all came in for a share of my
maledictions, and took out my cares, in curses upon the whole party.
Meanwhile I could distinguish, amid the other sounds, the elastic tread
of certain light feet that pattered upon the quarter-deck; and I could
not mistake the assured footstep which accompanied them, nor did I need
the happy roar of laughter that mixed with the noise, to satisfy myself
that the “Honourable Jack” was then cultivating the Alderman’s
daughters, discoursing most eloquently upon the fascinations of those
exclusive circles wherein he was wont to move, and explaining, on the
clearest principles, what a frightful chasm his absence must create in
the London world--how deplorably flat would the season go off, where he
was no actor--and wondering, who, among the aspirants of high ambition,
would venture to assume his line of character, and supply his place,
either on the turf, or at the table.
But at length the stage of semi-stupor came over me; the noises became
commixed in my head, and I lost all consciousness so completely, that,
whether from brandy or sickness, I fancied I saw the steward flirting
with the ladies, and the “Honourable Jack” skipping about with a white
apron, uncorking porter bottles, and changing sixpences.
***** *****
The same effect which the announcement of dinner produces on the stiff
party in the drawing-room, is caused by the information of being
alongside the quay, to the passengers of a packet. It is true the
procession is not so formal in the latter as in the former case: the
turbaned dowagers that take the lead in one, would, more than probably,
be last in the other: but what is lost in decorum, is more than made up
in hilarity. What hunting for carpet-bags! what opening and shutting of
lockers! what researches into portmanteaus, to extricate certain
seizable commodities, and stow them away upon the person of the owner,
till at last he becomes an impersonation of smuggling, with lace in his
boots, silk stockings in his hat, brandy under his waistcoat, and
jewelry in the folds of his cravat. There is not an item in the tariff
that might not be demonstrated in his anatomy: from his shoes to his
night-cap, he is a living sarcasm upon the revenue. And, after all, what
is the searching scrutiny of your Quarterly Reviewer, to the all-
penetrating eye of an excise officer? He seems to look into the whole
contents, of your wardrobe before you have unlocked the trunk “warranted
solid leather,” and with a glance appears to distinguish the true man
from the knave, knowing, as if by intuition, the precise number of
cambric handkerchiefs that befits your condition in life, and whether
you have transgressed the bounds of your station, by a single bottle.
What admirable training for a novelist would a year or two spent in such
duties afford; what singular views of life; what strange people must he
see; how much of narrative would even the narrow limits of a hat-box
present to him; and how naturally would a story spring from the rosy-
cheeked old gentleman, paying his duty upon a “_pâté de fois-gras_” to
his pretty daughter, endeavouring, by a smile, to diminish the tariff on
her French bonnet, and actually captivate a custom-house officer by the
charms of her “_robe a la Victorine_.”
The French “_douaniers_,” are droll fellows, and are the only ones I
have ever met who descend from the important gravity of their
profession, and venture upon a joke. I shall never forget entering
Valenciennes late one night, with a large “Diligence” party, among which
was a corpulent countryman of my own, making his first continental tour.
It was in those days when a passport presented a written portrait of the
bearer; when the shape of your nose, the colour of your hair, the cut of
your beard, and the angle of incidence of your eyebrow, were all noted
down and commented on, and a general summing up of the expression of
your features, collectively, appended to the whole; and you went forth
to the-world with an air “mild,” or “military;” “feeble,” “fascinating,”
or “ferocious,” exactly as the foreign office deemed it. It was in those
days, I say, when, on entering the fortress of Valenciennes, the door of
the “Diligence” was rudely thrown open, and, by the dim nicker of a
lamp, we beheld a moustached, stern-looking fellow, who rudely demanded
our passports. My fat companion, suddenly awakened from his sleep,
searched his various pockets with all the trepidation of a new
traveller, and at length, produced his credentials, which he handed,
with a polite bow, to the official. Whatever the nature of the
description I cannot say, but it certainly produced the most striking
effect on the passport officers, who laughed loud and long as they read
it over.
“_Descendez, Monsieur_” said the chief of the party, in a tone of stern
command.
“What does he say?” said the traveller, in a very decided western
accent.
“You must get out, sir” said he.
“Tare-an-ages,” said Mr. Moriarty, “what’s wrong?”
After considerable squeezing, for he weighed about twenty stone, he
disengaged himself from the body of the “Diligence,” and stood erect
upon the ground. A second lantern was now produced, and while one of the
officers stood on either side of him, with a light beside his face, a
third read out the clauses of the passport, and compared the description
with the original. Happily, Mr. Moriarty’s ignorance of French saved him
from the penalty of listening to the comments which were passed upon his
“_nez retroussé_” “_bouche ouverte_” &c.; but what was his surprise
when, producing some yards of tape, they proceeded to measure him round
the body, comparing the number of inches his circumference made, with
the passport.
“_Quatre-vingt-dix pouces_,” said the measurer, looking at the document,
“_Il en a plus_,” added he, rudely.
“What is he saying, sir, if I might be so bowld?” said Mr. Moriarty to
me, imploringly.
“You measure more than is set down in your passport,” said I,
endeavouring to suppress my laughter.
“Oh, murther! that dish of boiled beef and beet-root will be the ruin of
me. Tell them, sir, I was like a greyhound before supper.”
As he said this, he held in his breath, and endeavoured, with all his
might, to diminish his size; while the Frenchmen, as if anxious to
strain a point in his favour, tightened the cord round him, till he
almost became black in the face.
“_C’est ça_” said one of the officers, smiling blandly as he took off
his hat; “_Monsieur peut continuer sa route_.”
“All right,” said I, “you may come in, Mr. Moriarty.”
“‘Tis civil people I always heard they wor,” said he; “but it’s a
sthrange country where it’s against the laws to grow fatter.”
I like Holland;--it is the antipodes of France. No one is ever in a
hurry here. Life moves on in a slow majestic stream, a little muddy and
stagnant, perhaps, like one of their own canals, but you see no waves,
no breakers--not an eddy, nor even a froth-bubble breaks the surface.
Even a Dutch child, as he steals along to school, smoking his short
pipe, has a mock air of thought about him. The great fat horses, that
wag along, trailing behind them some petty, insignificant truck, loaded
with a little cask, not bigger than a life-guardsman’s helmet, look as
though Erasmus was performing duty as a quadruped, and walking about his
own native city in harness. It must be a glorious country to be born in.
No one is ever in a passion; and as to honesty, who has energy enough to
turn robber? The eloquence, which in other lands might wind a man from
his allegiance, would be tried in vain here. Ten minutes’ talking would
set any audience asleep, from Zetland to Antwerp. Smoking, beer-
drinking, stupifying, and domino-playing, go on, in summer, before, in
winter, within, the _cafés_, and every broad flat face that you look
upon, with its watery eyes and muddy complexion, seems like a coloured
chart of the country that gave it birth.
How all the industry, that has enriched them, is ever performed--how all
the cleanliness, for which their houses are conspicuous, is ever
effected, no one can tell. Who ever saw a Dutchman labour? Every thing
in Holland seems typified by one of their own drawbridges, which rises
as a boat approaches, by invisible agency, and then remains patiently
aloft, till a sufficiency of passengers arrives to restore it to its
place, and Dutch gravity seems the grand centre of all prosperity.
When, therefore, my fellow-passengers stormed and swore because they
were not permitted to land their luggage; when they heard that until
nine o’clock the following morning, no one would be astir to examine it;
and that the Rhine steamer sailed at eight, and would not sail again for
three days more, and cursed the louder thereat; I chuckled to myself
that I was going no where, that I cared not how long I waited, nor
where, and began to believe that something of very exalted philosophy
must have been infused into my nature without my ever being aware of it.
For twenty minutes and more, Sir Peter abused the Dutch; he called them
hard names in English, and some very strong epithets in bad French.
Meanwhile, his courier busied himself in preparations for departure, and
the “Honourable Jack” undertook to shawl the young ladies, a performance
which, whether from the darkness of the night, or the intricacy of the
muffling, took a most unmerciful time to accomplish.
“We shall never find the hotel at this hour,” said Sir Peter, angrily.
“The house will certainly be closed,” chimed in the young ladies.
“Take your five to two on the double event,” replied Jack, slapping the
Alderman on the shoulder, and preparing to book the wager.
I did not wait to see it accepted, but stepped over the side, and
trudged along the “Boomjes,” that long quay, with its tall elm trees,
under whose shade many a burgomaster has strolled at eve, musing over
the profits which his last venture from Batavia was to realize; and
then, having crossed the narrow bridge at the end, I traversed the
Erasmus Plata, and rang boldly, as an old acquaintance has a right to
do, at the closed door of the “Schwein Kopf.” My summons was not long
unanswered, and following the many-petticoated handmaiden along the
well-sanded passage, I asked, “Is the Holbein chamber unoccupied?” while
I drew forth a florin from my purse.
“Ah, Mynheer knows it then,” said she, smiling. “It is at your service.
We have had no travellers for some days past, and you are aware, that,
except greatly crowded, we never open it.”
This I knew well, and having assured her that I was an _habitué_ of the
Schwein Kopf, in times long past, I persuaded her to fetch some dry wood
and make me a cheerful fire, which, with a “krug of schiedam” and some
“canastre,” made me as happy as a king.
The “Holbeiner Kammer” owes its name, and any repute that it enjoys, to
a strange, quaint portrait, of that master seated at a fire, with a fair
headed, handsome child, sitting cross-legged on the hearth before him. A
certain half resemblance seems to run through both faces, although the
age and colouring are so different. But the same contemplative
expression, the deep-set eye, the massive forehead and pointed chin, are
to be seen in the child, as in the man.
This was Holbein and his nephew, Franz von Holbein, who in after years
served with distinction in the army of Louis Quatorze. The background of
the picture represents a room exactly like the chamber--a few highly-
carved oak chairs, the Utrecht velvet-backs glowing with their scarlet
brilliancy, an old-fashioned Flemish bed, with groups of angels,
neptunes, bacchanals, and dolphins, all mixed up confusedly in quaint
carving; and a massive frame to a very small looking-glass, which hung
in a leaning attitude over the fire-place, and made me think, as I gazed
at it, that the plane of the room was on an angle of sixty-five, and
that the least shove would send me clean into the stove.
“Mynheer wants nothing?” said the _Vrow_ with a courtsy.
“Nothing,” said I, with my most polite bow.
“Good night, then,” said she; “_schlaf wohl_, and don’t mind the ghost.”
“Ah, I know him of old,” replied I, striking the table three times with
my cane. The woman, whose voice the moment before was in a tone of jest,
suddenly grew pale, and, as she crossed herself devoutly, muttered--
“_Nein! Nein!_ don’t do that;” and shutting the door, hurried down
stairs with all the speed she could muster.
I was in no hurry to bed, however. The “krug” was racy, the “canastre”
excellent: so, placing the light where it should fall with good effect
on the Holbein, I stretched out my legs to the blaze; and, as I looked
upon the canvas, began to muse over the story with which it was
associated, and which I may as well jot down here, for memory’s sake.
Frank Holbein, having more ambition and less industry than the rest of
his family, resolved to seek his fortune; and early in the September of
the year 1681, he found himself wandering in the streets of Paris,
without a _liard_ in his pocket, or any prospects of earning one. He was
a fine-looking, handsome youth, of some eighteen or twenty years, with a
sharp, piercing look, and that Spanish cast of face for which so many
Dutch families are remarkable. He sat down, weary and hungry, on one of
the benches of the Pont de la Cité, and looked about him wistfully, to
see what piece of fortune might come to his succour. A loud shout, and
the noise of people flying in every direction, attracted him. He jumped
up, and saw persons running hither and thither to escape from a calèche,
which a pair of runaway horses were tearing along at a frightful rate.
Frank blessed himself, threw off his cloak, pressed his cap firmly upon
his brow, and dashed forward. The affrighted animals slackened their
speed as he stood before them, and endeavoured to pass by; but he sprang
to their heads, and with one vigorous plunge, grasped the bridle; but
though he held on manfully, they continued their way; and,
notwithstanding his every effort, their mad speed scarcely felt his
weight, as he was dragged along beside them. With one tremendous effort,
however, he wrested the near horse’s head from the pole, and, thus
compelling him to cross his fore-legs, the animal tripped, and came
headlong to the ground with a smash, that sent poor Frank spinning some
twenty yards before them. Frank soon got up again; and though his
forehead was bleeding, and his hand severely cut, his greatest grief
was, his torn doublet, which, threadbare before, now hung around him in
ribbons.
“It was you who stopped them?--are you hurt?” said a tall, handsome man,
plainly but well dressed, and in whose face the trace of agitation was
clearly marked.
“Yes, sir,” said Frank, bowing respectfully. “I did it; and see how my
poor doublet has suffered!”
“Nothing worse than that?” said the other, smiling blandly. “Well, well,
that is not of so much moment. Take this,” said he, handing him his
purse; “buy yourself a new doublet, and wait on me to-morrow by eleven.”
With these words the stranger disappeared in a calèche, which seemed to
arrive at the moment, leaving Frank in a state of wonderment at the
whole adventure.
“How droll he should never have told me where he lives!” said he, aloud,
as the bystanders crowded about him, and showered questions upon him.
“It is Monsieur le Ministre, man--M. de Louvois himself, whose life
you’ve saved. Your fortune is made for ever.”
The speech was a true one. Before three months from that eventful day,
M. de Louvois, who had observed and noted down certain traits of
acuteness in Frank’s character, sent for him to his _bureau_.
“Holbein,” said he, “I have seldom been deceived in my opinion of men--
you can be secret, I think.”
Frank placed his hand upon his breast, and bowed in silence.
“Take the dress you will find on that chair: a carriage is now ready,
waiting in the court-yard--get into it, and set out for Bâle. On your
arrival there, which will be--mark me well--about eight o’clock on the
morning of Thursday, you’ll leave the carriage, and send it into the
town, while you must station yourself on the bridge over the Rhine, and
take an exact note of everything that occurs, and every one that passes,
till the cathedral clock strikes three. Then, the calèche will be in
readiness for your return; and lose not a moment in repairing to Paris.”
It was an hour beyond midnight, in the early part of the following week,
that a calèche, travel-stained and dirty, drove into the court of the
minister’s hotel, and five minutes after, Frank, wearied and exhausted,
was ushered into M. de Louvois’ presence.
“Well, Monsieur,” said he impatiently, “what have you seen?”
“This, may it please your Excellency,” said Frank, trembling, “is a note
of it; but I am ashamed that so trivial an account----”
“Let us see--let us see,” said the minister.
“In good truth, I dare scarcely venture to read such a puerile detail.”
“Read it at once, Monsieur,” was the stern command.
Frank’s face became deep-red with shame, as he began thus:--
“Nine o’clock.--I see an ass coming along, with a child leading him. The
ass is blind of one eye.--A fat German sits on the balcony, and is
spitting into the Rhine----”
“Ten.--A livery servant from Bâle rides by, with a basket. An old
peasant in a yellow doublet----”
“Ah, what of him?
“Nothing remarkable, save that he leans over the rails, and strikes
three blows with his stick upon them.
“Enough, enough,” said M. de Louvois, gaily. “I must awake the king at
once.”
The minister disappeared, leaving Frank in a state of bewilderment. In
less than a quarter of an hour he entered the chamber, his face covered
with smiles.
“Monsieur,” said he, “you have rendered his majesty good service. Here
is your brevet of colonel.--The king has this instant signed it.”
In eight days after, was the news known in Paris, that Strasburg, then
invested by the French army, had capitulated, and been reunited to the
kingdom. The three strokes of the cane being the signal, which announced
the success of the secret negotiation between the ministers of Louis
XIV., and the magistrates of Strasburg.
This, was the Franz Holbein of the picture, and if the three _coups de
bâton_ are not attributable to his ghost, I can only say, I am totally
at a loss to say where they should be charged; for my own part, I ought
to add, I never heard them, conduct which I take it was the more
ungracious on the ghost’s part, as I finished the schiedam, and passed
my night on the hearth rug, leaving the feather-bed with its down
coverlet quite at master Frank’s disposal.
Although the “Schwein Kopf” stands in one of the most prominent squares
of Rotterdam, and nearly opposite the statue of Erasmus, it is
comparatively little known to English travellers. The fashionable hotels
which are near the quay of landing, anticipate the claims of this more
primitive house; and yet, to any one desirous of observing the ordinary
routine of a Dutch family, it is well worth a visit. The buxsom Vrows
who trudge about with short but voluminous petticoats, their heads
ornamented by those gold or silver circlets, which no Dutch peasant
seems ever to want, are exactly the very types of what you see in an
Ostade or a Teniers. The very host himself, old Hoogendorp, is a study;
scarcely five feet in height, he might measure nearly nine, in
circumference, and in case of emergency could be used as a sluicegate,
should any thing happen to the dykes. He was never to be seen before one
o’clock in the day, but exactly as the clock tolled that hour, the
massive soup-tureen, announcing the commencement of the _table d’hôte_,
was borne in state before him, while with “solemn step and slow,” ladle
in hand, and napkin round his neck, he followed after. His conduct at
table was a fine specimen of Dutch independence of character--he never
thought of bestowing those petty attentions which might cultivate the
good-will of his guests; he spoke little, he smiled never; a short nod
of recognition bestowed upon a townsman, was about the extent of royal
favour he was ever known to confer; or occasionally, when any remark
made near him seemed to excite his approbation, a significant grunt of
approval ratified the wisdom of the speech, and made a Solon of the
speaker. His spoon descended into the soup, and emerged therefrom with
the ponderous regularity of a crane into the hold of a ship. Every
function of the table was performed with an unbroken monotony, and
never, in the course of his forty years’ sovereignty, was he known to
distribute an undue quantity of fat, or an unseemly proportion of beet-
root sauce, to any one guest in preference to another.
The _table d’hôte_, which began at one, concluded a little before three,
during which time our host, when not helping others, was busily occupied
in helping himself, and it was truly amazing to witness the steady
perseverance with which he waded through every dish, making himself
master in all its details of every portion of the dinner, from the
greasy soup, to that _acmé_ of Dutch epicurism--Utrecht cheese. About a
quarter before three, the long dinner drew to its conclusion. Many of
the guests, indeed, had disappeared long before that time, and were deep
in all their wonted occupations of timber, tobacco, and train-oil. A
few, however, lingered on to the last. A burly major of infantry, who,
unbuttoning his undress frock, towards the close of the feast, would sit
smoking, and sipping his coffee, as if unwilling to desert the field; a
grave, long-haired professor; and, perhaps, an officer of the excise,
waiting for the re-opening of the custom-house, would be the extent of
the company. But even these dropped off at last, and, with a deep bow to
mine host, passed away to their homes, or their haunts. Meanwhile, the
waiters hurried hither and thither, the cloth was removed, in its place
a fresh one was spread, and all the preliminaries for a new dinner were
set about with the same activity as before. The napkins inclosed in
their little horn cases, the decanters of beer, the small dishes of
preserved fruit, without which no Dutchman dines, were all set forth,
and the host, without stirring from his seat, sat watching the
preparations with calm complacency. Were you to note him narrowly, you
could perceive that his eyes alternately opened and shut, as if
relieving guard, save which, he gave no other sign of life, nor even at
last, when the mighty stroke of three rang out from the cathedral, and
the hurrying sound of many feet proclaimed the arrival of the guests of
the second table, did he ever exhibit the slightest show or mark of
attention, but sat calm, and still, and motionless.
For the next two hours, it was merely a repetition of the performance
which preceded it, in which the host’s part was played with untiring
energy, and all the items of soup, fish, _bouilli_, fowl, pork, and
vegetables, had not to complain of any inattention to their merits, or
any undue preference for their predecessors, of an hour before. If the
traveller was astonished at his appetite during the first table, what
would he say to his feats at the second? As for myself, I honestly
confess I thought that some harlequin trick was concerned, and that mine
host of the “Schwein Kopf” was not a real man, but some mechanical
contrivance by which, with a trapdoor below him, a certain portion of
the dinner was conveyed to the apartments beneath. I lived, however, to
discover my error; and after four visits to Rotterdam, was at length so
far distinguished as actually to receive an invitation to pass an
evening with “Mynheer” in his own private den, which, I need scarcely
say, I gladly accepted.
I have a note of that evening some where--ay, here it is--“Mynheer is
waiting supper,” said a waiter to me, as I sat smoking my cigar, one
calm evening in autumn, in the porch of the “Schwein Kopf.” I followed
the man through a long passage, which, leading to the kitchen, emerged
on the opposite side, and conducted us through a little garden to a
small summer-house. The building, which was of wood, was painted in
gaudy stripes of red, blue, and yellow, and made in some sort to
resemble those Chinese pagodas, we see upon a saucer. Its situation was
conceived in the most perfect Dutch taste--one side, flanked by the
little garden of which I have spoken, displayed a rich bed of tulips and
ranunculuses, in all the gorgeous luxuriance of perfect culture--it was
a mass of blended beauty, and perfume, superior to any thing I have ever
witnessed. On the other flank, lay the sluggish, green-coated surface,
of a Dutch canal, from which rose the noxious vapours of a hot evening,
and the harsh croakings of ten thousand frogs, “fat, gorbellied knaves,”
the very burgomasters of their race, who squatted along the banks, and
who, except for the want of pipes, might have been mistaken for small
Dutchmen enjoying an evening’s promenade. This building was denominated
“Lust und Rust,” which, in letters of gold, was displayed on something
resembling a sign-board, above the door, and intimated to the traveller,
that the temple was dedicated to pleasure, and contentment. To a
Dutchman, however, the sight of the portly figure, who sat smoking at
the open window, was a far more intelligible illustration of the objects
of the building, than any lettered inscription. Mynheer Hoogendorp, with
his long Dutch pipe, and tall flagon, with its shining brass lid, looked
the concentrated essence of a Hollander, and might have been hung out,
as a sign of the country, from the steeple of Haarlem.
The interior was in perfect keeping with the designation of the
building: every appliance that could suggest ease, if not sleep, was
there; the chairs were deep, plethoric-looking, Dutch chairs, that
seemed as if they had led a sedentary life, and throve upon it; the
table was a short, thick-legged one, of dark oak, whose polished surface
reflected the tall brass cups, and the ample features of Mynheer, and
seemed to hob-nob with him when he lifted the capacious vessel to his
lips; the walls were decorated with quaint pipes, whose large porcelain
bowls bespoke them of home origin; and here and there a sea-fight, with
a Dutch three-decker hurling destruction on the enemy. But the genius of
the place was its owner, who, in a low fur cap and slippers, whose shape
and size might have drawn tears of envy from the Ballast Board, sat
gazing upon the canal in a state of Dutch rapture, very like apoplexy.
He motioned me to a chair without speaking--he directed me to a pipe, by
a long whiff of smoke from his own--he grunted out a welcome, and then,
as if overcome by such unaccustomed exertion, he lay back in his chair,
and sighed deeply.
We smoked till the sun went down, and a thicker haze, rising from the
stagnant ditch, joined with the tobacco vapour, made an atmosphere, like
mud reduced to gas. Through the mist, I saw a vision of soup tureens,
hot meat, and smoking vegetables. I beheld as though Mynheer moved among
the condiments, and I have a faint dreamy recollection of his performing
some feat before me; but whether it was carving, or the sword exercise,
I won’t be positive.
Now, though the schiedam was strong, a spell was upon me, and I could
not speak; the great green eyes that glared on me through the haze,
seemed to chill my very soul; and I drank, out of desperation, the
deeper.
As the evening wore on, I waxed bolder: I had looked upon the Dutchman
so long, that my awe of him began to subside, and I at last grew bold
enough to address him.
I remember well, it was pretty much with that kind of energy, that semi-
desperation, with which a man nerves himself to accost a spectre, that I
ventured on addressing him: how or in what terms I did it, heaven knows!
Some trite every-day observation about his great knowledge of life--his
wonderful experience of the world, was all I could muster; and when I
had made it, the sound of my own voice terrified me so much, that I
finished the can at a draught, to reanimate my courage.
“Ja! Ja!” said Van Hoogendorp, in a cadence as solemn as the bell of the
cathedral; “I have seen many strange things; I remember what few men
living can remember: I mind well the time when the ‘Hollandische Vrow’
made her first voyage from Batavia, and brought back a paroquet for the
burgomaster’s wife; the great trees upon the Boomjes were but saplings
when I was a boy; they were not thicker than my waist;” here he looked
down upon himself with as much complacency as though he were a sylph.
“Ach Gott! they were brave times, schiedam cost only half a guilder the
krug.”
I waited in hopes he would continue, but the glorious retrospect he had
evoked, seemed to occupy all his thoughts, and he smoked away without
ceasing.
“You remember the Austrians, then?” said I, by way of drawing him on.
“They were dogs!” said he, spitting out.
“Ah!” said I, “the French were better then?”
“Wolves!” ejaculated he, after glowing on me fearfully.
There was a long pause after this; I perceived that I had taken a wrong
path to lead him into conversation, and he was too deeply overcome with
indignation to speak. During this time, however, his anger took a
thirsty form, and he swigged away at the schiedam most manfully.
The effect of his libations became at last evident, his great green
stagnant eyes flashed and flared, his wide nostrils swelled and
contracted, and his breathing became short and thick, like the
convulsive sobs of a steam-engine when they open and shut the valves
alternately; I watched these indications for some time, wondering what
they might portend, when at length he withdrew his pipe from his mouth,
and with such a tone of voice as he might have used, if confessing a
bloody and atrocious murder, he said--
“I will tell you a story.”
Had the great stone figure of Erasmus beckoned to me across the
marketplace, and asked me the news “on change,” I could not have been
more amazed; and not venturing on the slightest interruption, I refilled
my pipe, and nodded sententiously across the table, while he thus began.