(_By Our Own Enterprising Explorer._)
"Why not go to Amsterdam?" At first sight this conundrum had the
customary couple of answers, "No time, no money." But these were
incorrect solutions.
"My dear Sir," said the Secretary of a Society organised to bring
happiness into the humblest home (pronunciation with or without
aspirates, according to the taste of the speaker), taking me up
smartly, "you can get there in less than no time, remain there less
than no time, and be back in less than no time. We can manage that for
you."
"But the expense?"
"We should not be a Society organised to bring happiness into the
humblest home if we could not manage that also. Look here: start Day
1 at 6.30 P.M.; be in Amsterdam morning of Day 2. Pause of thirty-six
hours for refreshment; then back again to London in time for breakfast
on Day 4. And with a view to bringing happiness into the humblest home
we charge a guinea for travelling expenses, which includes a state
cabin in the saloon of an excellent boat."
[Illustration: "That characteristic movement in sea produced more
gravity than gaiety amongst the passengers."]
So I closed with the Secretary, and brought away happiness to my
humble home. On the whole that happiness was maintained. It is true
that the excellent boat was rather leisurely in her movements. I went
to the Hook of Holland in a gale, which was kind enough to wait for my
return off the Dutch coast, and accompany me back to the white cliffs
of Albion. The excellent boat seemed to be on quite friendly terms
with this gale, and to enjoy its company. Instead of flying from shore
to shore, after the fashion of other steamers, the excellent boat
toyed with each wave, lingered languidly amongst every billow, and
arrived at her destination, both coming and going, several hours late.
She appeared during the voyages to keenly appreciate a characteristic
movement in sea. That characteristic movement in sea produced more
gravity than gaiety amongst the passengers. Leaving the excellent boat
out of the question--which boat, by the way, would no doubt have been
more than excellent _minus_ the gale--the journey "there and back" was
accomplished with comfort and despatch.
On my arrival at Amsterdam I found myself in a city that, in its main
characteristics, was not entirely unlike Brixton. The shops and the
people were both suggestive of the southern suburb. The trams that,
according to the guide-books, "traversed the town in every direction,"
were also reminiscent of that delightful haven of rest (from Saturday
to Monday) of the overworked stockbroker and the underworked Government
_employé_.
"You are sure to like Amsterdam," a friend of mine had said, as he
pressed my hand at parting, "because it's exactly like the Regent's
Park Canal."
My friend was right. Amsterdam certainly resembles the Regent's Park
Canal, but _plus_ Brixton. No doubt it is for this reason that it
is sometimes called "the Northern Venice." The people, too, had a
suburban look about them. I felt sure that most of them were called
SMITH, BROWN, JONES, and ROBINSON, with perhaps a conventional "dam"
tacked on to the end of their names to show that by nationality they
were Dutchmen. I approached one of these good, honest creatures, who
looked like SMITHDAM, and in my best broken English asked for the
Hotel Amstel. I pronounced the latter word as if the last syllable
rhymed with "peal." Mr. SMITHDAM stared at me and shook his head. Then
he said "Nine."
"'Otel Amstale," I continued, with a new pronunciation. "You know what
mean I--'Otel Amstale?"
But Mr. SMITHDAM didn't. He smiled, and again shook his head. This
annoyed me, so I murmured, "What an ass this chap must be; fancy not
knowing the way to the Amstel Hotel!"
"Amstel Hotel," he cried, with a pronunciation infinitely more English
than my own, and then most courteously gave me the route. I thanked
him with effusion, and most probably should have found his directions
of infinite value had he but delivered them in English instead of
Dutch. As it was, I put myself into a London-looking cab (the driver
very properly wore a military cockade), and was soon at one of the
best hostelries in Holland. Situation pleasant--of course overlooking
a canal--rooms comfortable, kitchen all that could be desired.
And now what did I do in Amsterdam? Why, I went to the Exhibition. And
what was it like? Well, a Dutch edition of those that had gone before.
At the Naval display before the Royal Hospital at Chelsea, there was
a model of the _Victory_, with a representation in wax of the Death
of Nelson. At Amsterdam there is a model of a mail-boat, with a
representation (in breathing humanity) of people drinking beer.
At Paris there was a Tour Eiffel, with a magnificent view at the
summit; at Amsterdam there is a tower in the shape of a colossal
elephant, with a fine display on every floor of beer. At South
Kensington there was a realistic reproduction of Old London on
temperance principles. At Amsterdam there is a realistic reproduction
of Old Holland served with beer. Go where I would I ran across beer.
The grounds of the Exhibition were dotted with booths. Before many
of them were very decent orchestras discoursing sweet music. But the
foreigners were there not only to attend to the music, but to drink
beer. The Exhibition proper (contents small and select, with few
English exhibits) was not apparently much of an attraction. I readily
understood the reason--it was not devoted exclusively to beer. In what
I may term the Exhibition annex I found any number of specimens of the
oriental merchants in the fezes, who were wont in the olden days to
enhance the joys of Olympia and Earl's Court.
"Come here, gentlemans," cried half a dozen in a breath, "I will sell
you this!"
But they didn't. Having done the exhibition and the admirable museum,
with its wonderful armour and marvellous old masters, I sampled a
music hall. I went to "the Crystal Palace" (vide guide-books), a
magnificent building, that no doubt had been built with the highest
aspirations and had come in the progress of time to the loftiest
tumblings. A portion of this noble institution had been converted into
a place of entertainment. Small stage with miniature scenery, trapeze,
orchestra. Audience almost entirely Dutch, entertainment almost
entirely English. Several British singers. One, a gentleman in evening
dress covered by a long Newmarket overcoat, with a _répertoire_
redolent of Holborn and the Surrey side, sang about "Nine in a row"
who (so I understood him to assert) "rolled down the street" when (if
I am not mistaken) they were rather "rocky about their feet." Then he
had another ditty which referred to his want of value. Was he worth
anything? He appealed to the Dutch audience. Some of them (possibly
friends of the singer) replied in the negative. Then he expressed his
conviction that he ought to be chucked out. The spectators cheered,
and seemed well satisfied with the programme. Whether they were able
to appreciate all the topical allusions is open to doubt, but I am
certain that they were thoroughly enjoying their beer.
I went to the market. An enormous crowd surrounded one booth. The
salesman was singing a song in honour of his wares, which were
composed of pieces of broken iron! So far as I could understand the
manners and customs of the vendors, the golden rule seemed to be
amongst them, "When in doubt take off the door to the outhouse with
the three broken panes of glass, the back parlour chandelier that
lacks a chain, and the disused baby's cradle, and sell 'em all by
auction."
I looked in, of course, at the Cathedral. My guide could not speak
French, but he understood English. He showed me the tombs of several
admirals.
"Where is VAN TROMP?" I asked, taking an interest in the career of
about the only Dutchman whose name I know intimately. Then, to make it
plainer, I added, "Whar is das VAN TROMP?"
My guide turned up his nose contemptuously, and said something (so
far as I could comprehend him) about VAN TROMP being in "de odder
kirsher." Later on, when I asked the use of a sort of vestry, he
murmured something about "Balaclava." From this I took it that he
could not make himself understood. But I was wrong. I did not know
much about the Dutch coinage. When I bought anything I invariably kept
my hand waiting for change until the supply was exhausted. Sometimes I
put forth my hand a second time with the result of getting a few
extra coins. There are guilders, little pieces that look like a
doll's silver pennies, and a showy coin that suggests a sixpence in
a decline. These latter are worth, I fancy, about three halfpence
a dozen. I gave the cathedral custodian one of these sixpences in a
decline. But it was not enough, not nearly enough, so I exchanged it
for a doll's silver penny, when he beamed with gratitude.
Would that I could tell of the other attractions of Amsterdam, of the
Royal Palace, the Zoo, the theatres, and the canals. But exigencies of
time and space say "No." Those who want to see and hear have only one
thing to do. Let them hie to the Hook of Holland, ho, to the Dutch
capital, and further description will be unnecessary.
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During a severe thunderstorm at Bjelina, in Bosnia, according to the
_Pall Mall Gazette's_ "Science Notes," there fell a remarkable "shower
of whitebait." This phenomenon has been easily eclipsed at London, in
England, where it recently rained cats and dogs.
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