Alkmaar and Hoorn, The Helder and Enkhuisen
To Alkmaar by canal--The Cheese Market--The Weigh House
clock--Buyers and sellers--The siege of Alkmaar--To
Hoorn by sea--A Peaceful harbour--Hoorn's explorer
sons--John Haring's bravery--The defeat of De Bossu--Negro
heroes--Hoorn's streets--and museum--Market day--and
Kermis--Nieuwediep--The Helder--The Lighthouse--Hotel
characters--The praise of the porter--Texel--Medemblik--King
Radbod's hesitancy--Enkhuisen--Paul Potter--Sir William Temple
and the old philosopher--The Dromedary.
If the weather is fine one should certainly go to Alkmaar by canal. The
journey by water, on a steamer, is always interesting and intensely
invigorating. It is only one remove from the open sea, so flat is
the country, so free the air.
Alkmaar's magnet is its cheese market, which draws little companies of
travellers thither every Friday in the season. To see it rightly one
must reach Alkmaar on the preceding afternoon, to watch the arrival
of the boats from the neighbouring farms, and see them unload their
yellow freight on the market quay. The men who catch the cheeses are
exceedingly adroit--it is the nearest thing to an English game that
is played in Holland. Before they are finally placed in position the
cheeses are liberally greased, until they glow and glitter like orange
fires. All the afternoon the boats come in, with their collections
from the various dairies on the water. By road also come cheeses in
wagons of light polished wood painted blue within; and all the while
the carillon of the beautiful grave Weigh House is ringing out its
little tunes--the wedding march from "Lohengrin" among them--and the
little mechanical horsemen are charging in the tourney to the blast of
the little mechanical trumpeter. At one o'clock they run only a single
course; but at noon the glories of Ashby-de-la-Zouche are enacted.
By nine o'clock on the Friday morning the market square is covered
with rectangular yellow heaps arranged with Dutch systematic order
and symmetry, many of them protected by tarpaulins, and the square
is filled also with phlegmatic sellers and buyers, smoking, smoking,
unceasingly smoking, and discussing the weather and the cheese,
the cheese and the Government.
Not till ten may business begin. Instantly the first stroke of ten
sounds the aspect of the place is changed. The Government and the
weather recede; cheese emerges triumphant. Tarpaulins are stripped off;
a new expression settles upon the features both of buyers and sellers;
the dealers begin to move swiftly from one heap to another. They feel
the cheeses, pat them, listen to them, plunge in their scoops and
remove a long pink stick which they roll in their fingers, smell or
taste and then neatly replace. Meanwhile, the seller stands by with an
air part self-satisfaction, part contempt, part pity, part detachment,
as who should say "It matters nothing to me whether this fussy fellow
thinks the cheese good or not, buys it or not; but whether he thinks
it good or bad, or whether he buys, or leaves it, it is still the
best cheese in Alkmaar market, and some one will give me my price".
The seller gnaws his cigar, the buyer asks him what he asks. The buyer
makes an offer. The seller refuses. The buyer increases it. The seller
either refuses or accepts. In accepting, or drawing near acceptance,
he extends his hand, which the buyer strikes once, and then pausing,
strikes again. Apparently two such movements clench the bargain;
but I must confess to being a bad guide here, for I could find no
absolute rule to follow. The whole process of Alkmaar chaffering
is exceedingly perplexing and elusive. Otherwise the buyer walks
away to other cheeses, the seller by no means unconscious of his
movements. A little later he returns, and then as likely as not his
terms are accepted, unless another has been beforehand with him and
bought the lot.
Not until half-past ten strikes may the weighing begin. At that hour
the many porters suddenly spring into activity and hasten to the
Weigh House with their loads, which are ticketed off by the master
of the scales.
The scene is altogether very Dutch and very interesting; and one should
make a point of crossing the canal to get a general view of the market,
with the river craft in the foreground, the bustling dealers behind,
and above all the elaborate tower and facade of the Weigh House.
Alkmaar otherwise is not of great interest. It has a large light
church, bare and bleak according to custom, with very attractive green
curtains against its whitewash, in which, according to the author
of _Through Noord-Holland_, is a tomb containing "the entrails of
Count Florence the Fifth". Here also is a model of one of De Ruyter's
ships. Alkmaar also possesses a charming Oude Mannen en Oude Vrouwen
Huis (or alms house, as we say) with white walls and a very pretty
tower; quiet, pleasant streets; and on its outskirts a fine wood
called the Alkmaarder Hout.
In the Museum, which is not too interesting, is a picture of the
siege of Alkmaar, an episode of which the town has every right to
be proud. It was the point of attack by the Duke of Alva and his son
after the conquest of Haarlem--that hollow victory for Spain which was
more costly than many defeats. Philip had issued a decree threatening
the total depopulation of Holland unless its cities submitted to
the charms of his attractive religion. The citizens of Alkmaar were
the first to defy this proclamation. Once again Motley comes to our
aid with his vivid narrative: "The Spaniards advanced, burned the
village of Egmont to the ground as soon as the patriots had left it,
and on the 21st of August Don Frederic, appearing before the walls,
proceeded formally to invest Alkmaar. In a few days this had been so
thoroughly accomplished, that, in Alva's language, 'it was impossible
for a sparrow to enter or go out of the city'. The odds were somewhat
unequal. Sixteen thousand veteran troops constituted the besieging
force. Within the city were a garrison of _eight hundred_ soldiers,
together with _thirteen hundred_ burghers, capable of bearing
arms. The rest of the population consisted of a very few refugees,
besides the women and children. Two thousand one hundred able-bodied
men, of whom only about one-third were soldiers, to resist sixteen
thousand regulars!
"Nor was there any doubt as to the fate which was reserved for them,
should they succumb. The Duke was vociferous at the ingratitude
with which his _clemency_ had hitherto been requited. He complained
bitterly of the ill success which had attended his monitory circulars;
reproached himself with incredible vehemence, for his previous
mildness, and protested that, after having executed only twenty-three
hundred persons at the surrender of Haarlem, besides a few additional
burghers since, he had met with no correspondent demonstrations of
affection. He promised himself, however, an ample compensation for all
this ingratitude in the wholesale vengeance which he purposed to wreck
upon Alkmaar. Already he gloated in anticipation over the havoc which
would soon be let loose within those walls. Such ravings, if invented
by the pen of fiction, would seem a puerile caricature; proceeding,
authentically, from his own, they still appear almost too exaggerated
for belief. 'If I take Alkmaar,' he wrote to Philip, 'I am resolved
not to leave a single creature alive; the knife shall be put to every
throat. Since the example of Harlem has proved of no use, _perhaps
an example of cruelty_ will bring the other cities to their senses,'
He took occasion also to read a lecture to the party of conciliation
in Madrid, whose counsels, as he believed, his sovereign was beginning
to heed. Nothing, he maintained, could be more senseless than the idea
of pardon and clemency. This had been sufficiently proved by recent
events. It was easy for people at a distance to talk about gentleness;
but those upon the spot knew better. _Gentleness had produced nothing_,
so far; violence alone could succeed in future. 'Let your Majesty,' he
said, 'be disabused of the impression, that with kindness anything can
be done with these people. Already have matters reached such a point
that many of those born in the country, who have hitherto advocated
clemency, are now undeceived, and acknowledge their mistake. They
are of opinion _that not a living soul should be left in Alkmaar,
but that every individual should be put to the sword_.'...
"Affairs soon approached a crisis within the beleaguered city. Daily
skirmishes, without decisive result, had taken place outside the
walls. At last, on the 18th of September, after a steady cannonade
of nearly twelve hours, Don Frederic at three in the afternoon,
ordered an assault. Notwithstanding his seven months' experience at
Haarlem, he still believed it certain that he should carry Alkmaar
by storm. The attack took place at once upon the Frisian gate,
and upon the red tower on the opposite side. Two choice regiments,
recently arrived from Lombardy, led the onset, rending the air with
their shouts, and confident of an easy victory. They were sustained
by what seemed an overwhelming force of disciplined troops. Yet
never, even in the recent history of Haarlem, had an attack been
received by more dauntless breasts. Every living man was on the walls,
The storming parties were assailed with cannon, with musketry, with
pistols. Boiling water, pitch and oil, molten lead, and unslaked lime,
were poured upon them every moment. Hundreds of tarred and burning
hoops were skilfully quoited around the necks of the soldiers, who
struggled in vain to extricate themselves from these fiery ruffs,
while as fast as any of the invaders planted foot upon the breach, they
were confronted face to face with sword and dagger by the burghers,
who hurled them headlong into the moat below.
"Thrice was the attack renewed with ever-increasing rage--thrice
repulsed with unflinching fortitude. The storm continued four hours
long. During all that period, not one of the defenders left his post,
till he dropped from it dead or wounded. The women and children,
unscared by the balls flying in every direction, or by the hand-to-hand
conflicts on the ramparts, passed steadily to and fro from the arsenals
to the fortifications, constantly supplying their fathers, husbands,
and brothers with powder and ball. Thus, every human being in the city
that could walk had become a soldier. At last darkness fell upon the
scene. The trumpet of recall was sounded, and the Spaniards, utterly
discomfited, retired from the walls, leaving at least one thousand
dead in the trenches, while only thirteen burghers and twenty-four
of the garrison lost their lives. Thus was Alkmaar preserved for a
little longer--thus a large and well-appointed army signally defeated
by a handful of men fighting for their firesides and altars. Ensign
Solis, who had mounted the breach for an instant, and miraculously
escaped with life, after having been hurled from the battlements,
reported that he had seen 'neither helmet nor harness,' as he looked
down into the city; only some plain-looking people, generally dressed
like fishermen. Yet these plain-looking fishermen had defeated the
veterans of Alva....
"The day following the assault, a fresh cannonade was opened upon
the city. Seven hundred shots having been discharged, the attack was
ordered. It was in vain; neither threats nor entreaties could induce
the Spaniards, hitherto so indomitable, to mount the breach. The place
seemed to their imagination protected by more than mortal powers,
otherwise how was it possible that a few half-starved fishermen could
already have so triumphantly overthrown the time-honoured legions of
Spain. It was thought, no doubt, that the Devil, whom they worshipped,
would continue to protect his children. Neither the entreaties nor the
menaces of Don Frederic were of any avail. Several soldiers allowed
themselves to be run through the body by their own officers, rather
than advance to the wails, and the assault was accordingly postponed
to an indefinite period."
What seemed at first an unfortunate accident turned the scale. A
messenger bearing despatches from the Prince of Orange fell into
Spanish hands and Don Frederic learned that the sea was to be let
in. Motley continues: "The resolution taken by Orange, of which Don
Frederic was thus unintentionally made aware, to flood the country
far and near rather than fail to protect Alkmaar, made a profound
impression upon his mind. It was obvious that he was dealing with
a determined leader, and with desperate men. His attempt to carry
the place by storm had signally failed, and he could not deceive
himself as to the temper and disposition of his troops ever since
that repulse. When it should become known that they were threatened
with submersion in the ocean, in addition to all the other horrors of
war, he had reason to believe that they would retire ignominiously
from that remote and desolate sand hook, where, by remaining, they
could only find a watery grave. These views having been discussed in
a council of officers, the result was reached that sufficient had been
already accomplished for the glory of the Spanish arms. Neither honour
nor loyalty, it was thought, required that sixteen thousand soldiers
should be sacrificed in a contest, not with man, but with the ocean.
"On the 8th of October, accordingly, the siege, which had lasted
seven weeks, was raised, and Don Frederic rejoined his father in
Amsterdam. Ready to die in the last ditch, and to overwhelm both
themselves and their foes in a common catastrophe, the Hollanders had
at last compelled their haughty enemy to fly from a position which
he had so insolently assumed."
Every one is agreed that Hoorn should be approached by water,
because it rises from the sea like an enchanted city of the East,
with its spires and its Harbour Tower beautifully unreal. And as the
ship comes nearer there is the additional interest of wondering how
the apparently landlocked harbour is to be entered, a long green bar
seeming to stretch unbrokenly from side to side. At the last minute
the passage is revealed, and one glides into this romantic port. I
put Hoorn next to Middelburg in the matter of charm, but seen from
the sea it is of greater fascination. In many ways Hoorn is more
remarkable as a town, but more of my heart belongs to Middelburg.
I sat on the coping of the harbour at sundown and watched a merry party
dining in the saloon of a white and exceedingly comfortable-looking
yacht, some thirty or forty yards away. Two neat maids continually
passed from the galley to the saloon, and laughter came over
the water. The yacht was from Arnheim, its owner having all the
appearance of a retired East Indian official. In the distance was
a tiny sailing boat with its sail set to catch what few puffs of
wind were moving. Its only occupant was a man in crimson trousers,
the reflection from which made little splashes of warm colour in the
pearl grey sea. At Hoorn there seems to be a tendency to sail for
pleasure, for as we came away a party of chattering girls glided out
in the care of an elderly man--bound for a cruise in the Zuyder Zee.
It is conjectured that Hoorn took its name from the mole protecting the
harbour, which might be considered to have the shape of a horn. The
city as she used to be (now dwindled to something less, although
the cheese industry makes her prosperous enough and happy enough)
was called by the poet Vondel the trumpet and capital of the Zuyder
Zee, the blessed Horn. He referred particularly to the days of Tromp,
whose ravaging and victorious navy was composed largely of Hoorn ships.
Cape Horn, at the foot of South America, is the name-child of the Dutch
port, for the first to discover the passage round that headland and to
give it its style was Willem Schouten, a Hoorn sailor. It was another
Hoorn sailor, Abel Tasman, who discovered Van Diemen's Land (now called
after him) and also New Zealand; and a third, Jan Pieters Coen (whose
statue may be seen at Hoorn) who founded the Dutch dominions in the
East Indies, and thus changed the whole character of his own country,
leading to that orientalising to which I have so often referred.
A more picturesque hero was John Haring of Hoorn, who performed a
great feat in 1572, when De Sonoy, the Prince of Orange's general,
was fighting De Bossu, the Spanish Admiral, off the Y, just at the
beginning of the siege of Haarlem. An unexpected force of Spaniards
from Amsterdam overwhelmed the few men whom De Sonoy had mustered
for the defence of the Diemerdyk. I quote Motley's account: "Sonoy,
who was on his way to their rescue, was frustrated in his design
by the unexpected faint-heartedness of the volunteers whom he had
enlisted at Edam. Braving a thousand perils, he advanced, almost
unattended, in his little vessel, but only to witness the overthrow
and expulsion of his band. It was too late for him singly to attempt
to rally the retreating troops. They had fought well, but had been
forced to yield before superior numbers, one individual of the little
army having performed prodigies of valour. John Haring, of Hoorn,
had planted himself entirely alone upon the dyke, where it was so
narrow between the Y on the one side and Diemer Lake on the other,
that two men could hardly stand abreast. Here, armed with sword
and shield, he had actually opposed and held in check one thousand
of the enemy, during a period long enough to enable his own men,
if they had been willing, to rally, and effectively to repel the
attack. It was too late, the battle was too far lost to be restored;
but still the brave soldier held the post, till, by his devotion,
he had enabled all those of his compatriots who still remained in
the entrenchments to make good their retreat. He then plunged into
the sea, and, untouched by spear or bullet, effected his escape. Had
he been a Greek or a Roman, a Horatius or a Chabras, his name would
have been famous in history--his statue erected in the market-place;
for the bold Dutchman on his dyke had manifested as much valour in
a sacred cause as the most classic heroes of antiquity."
Then came the siege of Haarlem, and then the siege of Alkmaar. Hoorn's
turn followed, but Hoorn was gloriously equal to it in the hands of
Admiral Dirckzoon, whose sword is in the Alkmaar museum, and whose
tomb is at Delft. Motley shall tell the story: "On the 11th October,
however, the whole patriot fleet, favored by a strong easterly breeze,
bore down upon the Spanish armada, which, numbering now thirty sail
of all denominations, was lying off and on in the neighbourhood
of Hoorn and Enkhuyzen. After a short and general engagement,
nearly all the Spanish fleet retired with precipitation, closely
pursued by most of the patriot Dutch vessels. Five of the King's
ships were eventually taken, the rest effected their escape. Only
the Admiral remained, who scorned to yield, although his forces had
thus basely deserted him. His ship, the 'Inquisition,' for such was
her insolent appellation, was far the largest and best manned of both
the fleets. Most of the enemy had gone in pursuit of the fugitives,
but four vessels of inferior size had attacked the 'Inquisition' at
the commencement of the action. Of these, one had soon been silenced,
while the other three had grappled themselves inextricably to her sides
and prow. The four drifted together, before wind and tide, a severe
and savage action going on incessantly, during which the navigation of
the ships was entirely abandoned. No scientific gunnery, no military
or naval tactics were displayed or required in such a conflict. It
was a life-and-death combat, such as always occurred when Spaniard
and Netherlander met, whether on land or water. Bossu and his men,
armed in bullet-proof coats of mail, stood with shield and sword
on the deck of the 'Inquisition,' ready to repel all attempts to
board. The Hollander, as usual, attacked with pitch hoops, boiling
oil, and molten lead. Repeatedly they effected their entrance to the
Admiral's ship, and as often they were repulsed and slain in heaps,
or hurled into the sea.
"The battle began at three in the afternoon, and continued without
intermission through the whole night. The vessels, drifting together,
struck on the shoal called the Nek, near Wydeness. In the heat of the
action the occurrence was hardly heeded. In the morning twilight,
John Haring, of Hoorn, the hero who had kept one thousand soldiers
at bay upon the Diemer dyke, clambered on board the 'Inquisition,'
and hauled her colors down. The gallant but premature achievement cost
him his life. He was shot through the body and died on the deck of the
ship, which was not quite ready to strike her flag. In the course of
the forenoon, however, it became obvious to Bossu that further
resistance was idle. The ships were aground near a hostile coast,
his own fleet was hopelessly dispersed, three-quarters of his crew
were dead or disabled, while the vessels with which he was engaged
were constantly recruited by boats from the shore, which brought fresh
men and ammunition, and removed their killed and wounded. At eleven
o'clock Admiral Bossu surrendered, and with three hundred prisoners
was carried into Holland. Bossu was himself imprisoned at Hoorn, in
which city he was received, on his arrival, with great demonstrations
of popular hatred."
De Bossu remained in prison for three years. Later he fought for the
States. His goblet is preserved at Hoorn. His collar is at Monnickendam
and his sword at Enkhuisen.
The room in the Protestant orphanage where De Bossu was imprisoned is
still to be seen; and you may see also at the corner of the Grooteoost
the houses from which the good wives and housekeepers watched the
progress of the battle, and on which a bas-relief representation of
the battle was afterwards placed in commemoration.
Two more heroes of Hoorn may be seen in effigy on the façade of
the State College, opposite the Weigh House, guarding an English
shield. The shield is placed there, among the others, on account of
a daring feat performed by two negro sailors in De Ruyter's fleet
in the Thames, who ravished from an English ship in distress the
shield at her stern and presented it to Hoorn, their adopted town,
where it is now supported by bronze figures of its captors.
Hoorn's streets are long and cheerful, with houses graciously bending
forwards, many of them dignified by black paint and yet not made too
grave by it. This black paint blending with the many trees on the
canal sides has the same curious charm as at Amsterdam, although there
the blackness is richer and more absolute. Even the Hoorn warehouses
are things of beauty: one in particular, by the Harbour Tower, with
bright green shutters, is indescribably gay, almost coquettish. Hoorn
also has the most satisfying little houses I saw in Holland--streets
of them. And of all the costumes of Holland I remember most vividly
the dead black dress and lace cap of a woman who suddenly turned a
corner here--as if she had walked straight from a picture by Elias.
The Harbour Tower is perhaps Hoorn's finest building, its charm
being intensified rather than diminished by the hideous barracks
close by. St. Jan's Gasthuis has a façade of beautiful gravity, and
the gateway of the home for Ouden Vrouwen is perfect. The museum
in the Tribunalshof is the most intimate and human collection of
curiosities which I saw in Holland--not a fossil, not a stuffed bird,
in the building. Among the pictures are the usual groups of soldiers
and burgomasters, and the usual fine determined De Ruyter by Bol. We
were shown Hoorn's treasures by a pleasant girl who allowed no shade
of tedium to cross her smiling courteous face, although the display
of these ancient pictures and implements, ornaments and domestic
articles must have been her daily work for years. In the top room
of all is a curious piece of carved stone on which may be read these
inscriptions:--
This most illustrious Prince,
Henry Lord Darnley, King of Scotland,
Father to our Soveraigne Lord King James.
He died at the age of 21.
The most excellent Princesse Marie, Queen of Scotland,
Mother of our Soveraigne, Lord King James.
She died 1586, and entombed at West Minster.
It would be interesting to know more of this memorial.
In another room are two carved doors from a house in Hoorn that had
been disfurnished which give one a very vivid idea of the old good
taste of this people and the little palaces of grave art in which
they lived.
Thursday is Hoorn's market day, and it is important to be there then
if one would see the market carts of North Holland in abundance. We
had particularly good fortune since our Thursday was not only market
day but the Kermis too. I noticed that the principal attraction of
the fair, for boys, was the stalls (unknown at the Kermis both at
Middelburg and Leyden) on which a variety of flat cake was chopped
with a hatchet. The chopper, who I understand is entitled only to
what he can sever with one blow, often fails to get any.
Nieuwediep and The Helder, at the extreme north of Holland, are one,
and interesting only to those to whom naval works are interesting. For
they are the Portsmouth and Woolwich of the country. My memories of
these twin towns are not too agreeable, for when I was there in 1897
the voyage from Amsterdam by the North Holland canal had chilled me
through and through, and in 1904 it rained without ceasing. Nieuwediep
is all shipping and sailors, cadet schools and hospitals. The Helder
is a dull town, with the least attractive architecture I had seen,
cowering beneath a huge dyke but for which, one is assured, it would
lie at the bottom of the North Sea. Under rain it is a drearier town
than any I know; and ordinarily it is bleak and windy, saved only
by its kites, which are flown from the dyke and sail over the sea at
immense heights. Every boy has a kite--one more link between Holland
and China.
I climbed the lighthouse at The Helder just before the lamp was lit. It
was an impressive ceremony. The captain and his men stood all ready,
the captain watching the sun as it sunk on the horizon. At the instant
it disappeared he gave the word, and at one stride came the light. I
chanced at the moment to be standing between the lantern and the sea,
and I was asked to move with an earnestness of entreaty in which the
safety of a whole navy seemed to be involved. The light may be seen
forty-eight miles away. It is fine to think of all the eyes within
that extent of sea, invisible to us, caught almost simultaneously by
this point of flame.
I did not stay at Nieuwediep but at The Helder. Thirty years ago,
however, one could have done nothing so inartistic, for then,
according to M. Havard, the Hotel Ten Burg at Nieuwediep had for
its landlord a poet, and for its head waiter a baritone, and to stay
elsewhere would have been a crime. Here is M. Havard's description
of these virtuosi: "No one ever sees the landlord the first day he
arrives at the hotel. M.B.R. de Breuk is not accessible to ordinary
mortals. He lives up among the clouds, and when he condescends to come
down to earth he shuts himself up in his own room, where he indulges
in pleasant intercourse with the Muses.
"I have no objection to confessing that, although I am a brother in
the art, and have stayed several times at his hotel, I have never
once been allowed to catch a glimpse of his features. The head-waiter,
happily, is just the contrary. It is he who manages the hotel, receives
travellers, and arranges for their well-being. He is a handsome
fellow, with a fresh complexion, heavy moustache, and one lock of hair
artificially arranged on his forehead. He is perfectly conscious of
his own good looks, and wears rings on both his hands. Nature has
endowed him with a sonorous baritone voice, the notes of which,
whether sharp or melodious, he is careful in expressing, because
he is charmed with his art, and has an idea that it is fearfully
egotistical to conceal such treasures. One note especially he never
fails to utter distinctly, and that is the last--the note of payment.
"Sometimes he allows himself to become so absorbed in his art that he
forgets the presence in the hotel of tired travellers, and disturbs
their slumbers by loud roulades and cadences; or perhaps he is asked to
fetch a bottle of beer, he stops on the way to the cellar to perfect
the harmony of a scale, and does not return till the patience of the
customer is exhausted. But who would have the heart to complain of such
small grievances when the love of song is stronger than any other?"
I had no such fortune in Holland. No hotel proprietor rhymed for me,
no waiter sang. My chief friends were rather the hotel porters,
of whom I recall in particular two--the paternal colossus at the
Amstel in Amsterdam, who might have sat for the Creator to an old
master--urbane, efficient, a storehouse of good counsel; and the plump
and wide cynic into whose capable and kindly hands one falls at the
Oude Doelen at The Hague, that shrewd and humorous reader of men and
Americans. I see yet his expression of pity, not wholly (yet perhaps
sufficiently) softened to polite interest, when consulted as to the
best way in which to visit Alkmaar to see the cheese market. That
any one staying at The Hague--and more, at the Oude Doelen--should
wish to see traffic in cheese at a provincial town still strikes his
wise head as tragic, although it happens every week. I honour him
for it and for the exquisite tact with which he retains his opinion
and allows you to have yours.
A poet landlord and an operatic head waiter, what are they when all
is said beside a friendly hotel porter? He is the _Deus ex machinâ_
indeed. The praises of the hotel porter have yet to be sung. O
Switzerland! the poet might begin (not, probably, a landlord poet) O
Switzerland--I give but a bald paraphrase of the spirited original--O
Switzerland, thou land of peaks and cow bells, of wild strawberries
and nonconformist conventions, of grasshoppers and climbing dons,
thou hast strange limitations! Thou canst produce no painter, thou
possessest no navy; but thou makest the finest hotel porters in the
world. Erect, fair-haired, blue-eyed, tactful and informing, they
are the true friends of the homeless!--And so on for many strophes.
To Texel I did not cross, although it is hard for any one who has
read _The Riddle of the Sands_ to refrain. Had we been there in the
nesting season I might have wandered in search of the sea birds'
and the plovers' eggs, just for old sake's sake, as I have in the
island of Coll, but we were too late, and The Helder had depressed
us. It was off the Island of Texel on 31st July, 1653, that Admiral
Tromp was killed during his engagement with the English under Monk.
Medemblik, situated on the point of a spur of land between The Helder
and Enkhuisen, was once the residence of Radbod and the Kings of
Frisia. It is now nothing. One good story at any rate may be recalled
there. When Radbod, King of the Frisians, was driven out of Western
Frisia in 689 by Pepin of Heristal, Duke and Prince of the Franks
(father of Charles Martel and great grandfather of Charlemagne, who
completed the conquest of Frisia), the defeated king was considered
a convert to Christianity, and the preparations for his baptism were
made on a grand scale. Never a whole-hearted convert, Radbod, even as
one foot was in the water, had a visitation of doubt. Where, he made
bold to ask, were the noble kings his ancestors, who had not, like
himself, been offered this inestimable privilege of baptism--in heaven
or in hell? The officiating Bishop replied that they were doubtless
in hell. "Then," said Radbod, withdrawing his foot, "I think it would
be better did I join them there, rather than go alone to Paradise."
Enkhuisen, where one embarks for Friesland, is a Dead City of the
Zuyder Zee, with more signs of dissolution than most of them. Once she
had a population of sixty thousand; that number must now be divided
by ten.
"Above all things," says M. Havard, the discoverer of Dead Cities,
"avoid a promenade in this deserted town with an inhabitant familiar
with its history, otherwise you will constantly hear the refrain;
'Here was formerly the richest quarter of commerce; there, where
the houses are falling into total ruin, was the quarter of our
aristocracy,' But more painful still, when we have arrived at what
appears the very end of the town, the very last house, we see at a
distance a gate of the city. A hundred years ago the houses joined
this gate. It took us a walk of twenty minutes across the meadows
to arrive at this deserted spot." I did not explore the town, and
therefore I cannot speak with any authority of its possessions;
but I saw enough to realise what a past it must have had.
At Enkhuisen was born Paul Potter, who painted the famous picture
of the bull in the Mauritshuis at The Hague. The year 1625 saw his
birth; and it was only twenty-nine years later that he died. While
admiring Potter's technical powers, I can imagine few nervous trials
more exacting than having to live with his bull intimately in one's
room. This only serves to show how temperamental a matter is art
criticism, for on each occasion that I have been to the Mauritshuis the
bull has had a ring of mute or throbbing worshippers, while Vermeer's
"View of Delft" was without a devotee. I have seen, however, little
scenes of cattle by Potter which were attractive as well as masterly.
Sir William Temple, in his _Observations upon the United Provinces_
gives a very human page to this old town: "Among the many and various
hospitals, that are in every man's curiosity and talk that travels
their country, I was affected with none more than that of the aged
seamen at Enchuysen, which is contrived, finished, and ordered,
as if it were done with a kind intention of some well-natured man,
that those, who had passed their whole lives in the hardships and
incommodities of the sea, should find a retreat stored with all
the eases and conveniences that old age is capable of feeling and
enjoying. And here I met with the only rich man that ever I saw in
my life: for one of these old seamen entertaining me a good while
with the plain stories of his fifty years' voyages and adventures,
while I was viewing their hospital, and the church adjoining, I gave
him, at parting, a piece of their coin about the value of a crown:
he took it smiling, and offered it me again; but, when I refused
it, he asked me, What he should do with money? for all, that ever
they wanted, was provided for them at their house. I left him to
overcome his modesty as he could; but a servant, coming after me,
saw him give it to a little girl that opened the church door, as she
passed by him: which made me reflect upon the fantastic calculation
of riches and poverty that is current in the world, by which a man,
that wants a million, is a Prince; he, that wants but a groat, is a
beggar; and this a poor man, that wanted nothing at all."
Hoorn's Harbour Tower, as I have said, has a charm beyond description;
but Enkhuisen's--known as the Dromedary--is unwieldly and plain. It
has, however, this advantage over Hoorn's, its bells are very
beautiful. One sees the Dromedary for some miles on the voyage to
Stavoren and Friesland.