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Transcriber’s note:
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Changes made are noted at the end of the book.
A JAYHAWKER IN EUROPE
by
W. Y. MORGAN
Author of “A Journey of a Jayhawker”
[Illustration]
Monotyped and Printed by
Crane & Company
Topeka
1911
Copyright 1911,
by Crane & Company
Preface
These letters were printed in the Hutchinson _Daily News_ during the
summer of 1911. There was no ulterior motive, no lofty purpose, just
the reporter’s idea of telling what he saw.
They are now put in book form without revision or editing, because the
writer would probably make them worse if he tried to make them better.
W. Y. MORGAN.
HUTCHINSON, KANSAS, November 1, 1911.
To the Jayhawkers
who stay at home and take their European trips
in their minds and in the books, this
volume is respectfully dedicated
by one of the
gadders
Table of Contents
_Page_
NEW YORK IN THE HOT TIME, 1
BREAKING AWAY, 7
ON THE POTSDAM, 12
THE LIONS OF THE SHIP, 18
OCEAN CURRENTS, 25
THE DUTCH FOLKS, 30
IN OLD DORDRECHT, 37
THE DUTCHESSES, 44
THE PILGRIMS’ START, 50
AMSTERDAM, AND OTHERS, 56
CHEESES AND BULBSES, 63
HISTORIC LEYDEN, 72
THE DUTCH CAPITAL, 80
“THE DUTCH COMPANY,” 88
THE GREAT RIVER, 96
ALONG THE RHINE, 104
IN GERMAN TOWNS, 112
ARRIVING IN PARIS, 120
THE FRENCH CHARACTER, 127
THE LATIN QUARTER, 135
THE BOULEVARDS OF PARIS, 144
SOME FRENCH WAYS, 154
IN DOVER TOWN, 162
OLD CANTERBURY TODAY, 169
THE ENGLISH STRIKE, 178
ENGLISHMAN THE GREAT, 187
THE NORTH OF IRELAND, 198
SCOTLAND AND THE SCOTCH, 211
THE LAND OF BURNS, 220
THE JOURNEY’S END. 228
Table of Illustrations
The scrubbing-brush the national emblem of Holland _Facing page_ 41
No place for a man from Kansas " 74
The poet Byron building castles " 100
The handsome knight she met in Elmdale Park " 111
The plain Quadrille at the Moulin Rouge " 148
Seeing London from the old English bus " 188
Introducing a joke to our British cousins " 234
A Jayhawker _in_ Europe
New York in the Hot Time
NEW YORK, July 10, 1911.
The last day on American soil before starting on a trip to other lands
should be marked with a proper spirit of seriousness, and I would
certainly live up to the propriety of the occasion if it were not for
two things,--the baggage and the weather. But how can a man heave a
sigh of regret at departing from home, when he is chasing over Jersey
City and Hoboken after a stray trunk, and the thermometer is breaking
records for highness and the barometer for humidity? I have known some
tolerably warm zephyrs from the south which were excitedly called “hot
winds,” but they were balmy and pleasant to the touch in comparison
with the New York hot wave which wilts collar, shirt and backbone
into one mass. The prospect of tomorrow being out on the big water
with a sea breeze and a northeast course does not seem bad, even if
you are leaving the Stars and Stripes and home and friends. There is
nothing like hot, humid weather to destroy patriotism, love, affection,
and common civility. I speak in mild terms, but I have returned from
Hoboken, the station just the other side of the place whose existence
is denied by the Universalists. This is the place the ship starts from,
and not from New York, as it is advertised to do.
* * * * *
Speaking of weather reminds me that the West is far ahead of New York
in the emancipation of men. The custom here is for men to wear coats
regardless of the temperature, whereas in the more intelligent West
a man is considered dressed up in the evening if he takes off his
gallusses along with his coat. Last night we went to a “roof garden”
and expected that it would be a jolly Bohemian affair, but every man
sat with his coat on and perspired until he couldn’t tell whether the
young ladies of the stage were kicking high or not, and worse than
that, he did not care.
I have been again impressed with the fact that there are no flies in
New York City. There are no screens on the windows, not even of the
dining-rooms, and yet I have not seen a fly. I wish Dr. Crumbine would
tell us why it is that flies swarm out in Kansas and leave without a
friendly visit such a rich pasture-ground as they would find on the
millions of humans on Manhattan island. If I were a fly I would leave
the swatters and the hostile board of health of Kansas, and take the
limited train for New York and one perpetual picnic for myself and
family.
* * * * *
This afternoon I went to the ball game, of course. Some people would
have gone to the art exhibit or the beautiful public library. But New
York and Chicago were to play and Matthewson was to pitch, and the
call of duty prevailed over the artistic yearnings which would have
taken me elsewhere. Coming home from the game I had an idea--which is
a dangerous thing to do in hot weather. There has been a good deal
of talk in the newspapers about the Republicans not agreeing on a
candidate, and the question as to whether Taft can be reëlected or
not is being vigorously debated. Put ’em all out and nominate Christy
Matthewson. This would insure the electoral vote of New York, for if
the Republicans put “Matty” on the ticket the election returns would be
so many millions for Matthewson and perhaps a few scattering.
There were about as many errors and boneheads in the game between
Chicago and New York as there would be in a Kansas State League game,
and more than would come to pass in the match between the barbers
and the laundrymen of Hutchinson. The players did not indulge in
that brilliant repartee with the umpire which is a feature of the
Kansas circuit, and the audience, while expressing its opinion of
the judgments, had no such wealth of phrases as pours over the boxes
from the grandstand at home. The language used could have come from
the ministerial alliance, and sometimes the game seemed more like a
moving-picture show than a real live game of baseball. Chicago won,
3 to 2 in ten innings, and I feel that my European trip is a decided
success so far.
This morning I took a little walk down Wall street and saw the place in
which the Great Red Dragon lives. These New York bankers and brokers
are not so dangerous as I have been led to believe by reading some
of the speeches in Congress. There was no blood around the Standard
Oil building, and the office of J. Pierpont was filled with men who
looked as uncomfortable and unhappy as I felt with the heat. Sometimes
I think the men of Wall street, New York, are just like the men at
home,--getting all they can under the rules of the game and only
missing the bases when the umpire looks the other way. The few with
whom I talked were really concerned about the crops and the welfare of
the people of Kansas, perhaps because they have some of their money
invested in our State, and I got the idea that Wall street and all it
represents is interested in the prosperity of the country and knows
that hard times anywhere mean corresponding trouble for some of them in
New York.
* * * * *
New York is a growing city. In many respects it is like Hutchinson. The
street paving is full of holes and new buildings are going up in every
direction. Every few months “the highest skyscraper” is erected, and
now one is being constructed that will have fifty or sixty stories--it
doesn’t matter which. The buildings are faced with brick or stone, but
really built of iron. I saw one today on which the bricklaying had been
begun at the seventh story and was proceeding in both directions. That
was the interesting feature of the building to me. That and the absence
of flies and the baseball game are the general results of my efforts
today to see something of the greatest city in America.
We sail tomorrow morning. Then it will be ten days on the ship for us.
One thing about an ocean voyage is reasonably sure: If you don’t like
it you can’t get off and walk. A really attractive feature is that
there is no dust and you don’t watch the clouds and wish it would rain
so you will not have to water the lawn.
Breaking Away
STEAMSHIP POTSDAM, July 11.
The sailing of an ocean steamer is always a scene of delightful
confusion and excitement. Thousands of people throng the pier and
the ship, saying goodbyes to the hundreds who are about to leave.
The journey across the ocean, though no longer a matter of danger or
hardship, is yet enough of an event to start the emotions and make the
emoters forget everything but the watery way and the long absence.
The crowd is anxious, expectant, sad, and unrestrained. Men who rarely
show personal feeling look with glistening eyes on the friends to be
left behind. Women, who are always seeing disaster to their loved ones,
strive with pats, caresses and fond phrases to say the consoling words
or to express the terror in their hearts. The timid girl, off for a
year’s study, wishes she had not been so venturesome. The father rubs
his eyes and talks loudly about the baggage. The mother clings to her
son’s arm and whispers to him how she will pray for him every night,
and hopes he will change his underclothes when the days are cool. Young
folks hold hands and tell each other of the constant remembrance that
they will have. Big bouquets of flowers are brought on by stewards,
the trunks go sliding up the plank and into the ship, the officers
strut up and down, conscious of the admiring glances of the curious,
orders are shouted, sailors go about tying and untying ropes, the rich
family parades on with servants and boxes, the whistle blows for the
visitors to leave, and the final goodbyes and “write me” and “lock the
back door” and “tell Aunt Mary” and such phrases fill the air while
handkerchiefs alternately wipe and wave.
Slowly the big boat backs into the stream amid a fog of cheers and
sobs, then goes ahead down the harbor, past the pier still alive with
fluttering handkerchiefs, the voices no longer to be heard, and the
passengers feel that sinking of the heart that comes from the knowledge
of the separation by time and distance coming to them for weeks and
months, perhaps forever. Sorrowfully they strain for a last look at
the crowd, now too far away to distinguish the wanted face, and then
they turn around, look at their watches, and wonder how long it will be
before lunch. Of course the Dutch band played the Star-Spangled Banner
as the boat trembled and started; of course the last passenger arrived
just a minute late and was prevented from making an effort to jump
the twenty feet of water which then separated the ship from the pier.
Of course the boys sold American flags and souvenir post cards. Of
course the tourists wondered if they would be seasick and their friends
rather hoped they would be, though they did not say so. The steamboats
whistled salutes, and the band changed its tune to a Dutch version of
“The Girl I Left Behind Me,” and with flags flying the Potsdam moved
past the big skyscrapers, past the Battery, alongside the Statue of
Liberty, and out toward the Atlantic like a swan in Riverside Park. The
voyage has begun. The traveler has to look after his baggage, which is
miraculously on board, find his deck chairs and his dining-room seats,
and between times rush out occasionally to get one more glimpse of
the New Jersey coast, which is never very pretty except when you are
homeward bound, when even Oklahoma would look good.
* * * * *
This boat, the Potsdam, of the Holland-American line, is not one of the
big and magnificent floating hotels which take travelers across the
Atlantic so rapidly that they do not get acquainted with each other and
in such style that they think they are at a summer resort. But it is a
good-sized, easy-sailing, slow-going ship that will take about ten days
across and has every comfort which the Dutch can think of, and they are
long on having things comfortable. It has a reputation for steadiness
and good meals which makes it popular with people who have traveled
the Atlantic and who enjoy the ocean voyage as the best part of a trip
abroad. It lands at Rotterdam, one of the best ports of Europe and
right in the center of the most interesting part of the Old World.
* * * * *
The pilot left us at Sandy Hook, and now the Potsdam is sailing right
out into the big water. A cool breeze has taken the place of the hot
air of New York. The ocean is smooth; there is neither roll nor heave
to the ship. Everybody is congratulating himself that this is to be
a smooth voyage. A substantial luncheon is still staying where it
belongs, and we are looking over the other passengers and being looked
over by them. There is no chance to get off and go back if we wanted to
do so. And we don’t want to--not yet.
On the Potsdam
STEAMSHIP POTSDAM, July 14.
The daily life on shipboard might be considered monotonous if one were
being paid for it, but under the present circumstances and surroundings
the time goes rapidly. Everybody has noticed that the things he is
obliged to do are dull and uninteresting. Any ordinary American would
demand about $10 a day for fastening himself in a boat and remaining
there for ten days. He would get tired of the society, sick of the
meals and sore on his job. But call it “fun” and he pays $10 a day
for the pleasure of the ride. The Potsdam is 560 feet long, sixty-two
feet wide, and seven stories high,--four above the water-line and
three below. On this trip its first-class accommodations are filled,
about 260 people; but the second class is not crowded, and less than a
hundred steerage passengers occupy that part of the ship which often
carries 2,100 people. The steerage is crowded on the trip to America,
filled with men and women who are leaving home and fatherland in order
to do better for themselves and their children. They go back in later
years, for a visit, but they do not travel in the steerage. They carry
little American flags and scatter thoughts of freedom and free men in
the older lands.
* * * * *
This is a Dutch ship and the language of the officers and crew is
Dutch. While a few of them speak some English and most of them know a
little, the general effect is that of getting into an entirely foreign
environment. The Dutch language is a peculiar blend. It seems to be
partly derived from the German, partly from the English, and partly
from the Choctaw. The pronunciation is difficult because it is unlike
the German, the English or the Latin tongues. An ordinary word spelled
out looks like a freight train of box cars with several cabooses. As
one of my Dutch fellow-passengers said when he was instructing me how
to pronounce the name of the capital of Holland, “Don’t try to say it;
sneeze it.” A great deal of interest is added to the smallest bits of
conversation by the doubt as to whether the Dutch speaker is telling
you that it is dinner-time or whether he has swallowed his store teeth.
Which reminds me of a little story Ben Nusbaum told me of the Dutchman
who came into the Oxford café, sat up to the counter and in proper
Dutch etiquette greeted the waiter with the salutation, “Wie gehts?”
Turning toward the kitchen the waiter sang out, “wheat cakes!” “Nein!
nein!” shouted the Dutchman. “Nine,” said the waiter, scornfully;
“you’ll be dam lucky if you get three!”
* * * * *
The principal occupation on board a Dutch ship is eating, and the next
most important is drinking. The eats begin with a hearty breakfast from
8 to 10 o’clock. At 11 o’clock, beef soup, sandwiches and crackers.
At 12:30, an elaborate luncheon. At 4 o’clock, afternoon tea, with
sandwiches and fancy cakes. At 7 o’clock, a great dinner. At 9 o’clock,
coffee, sandwiches, etc. Any time between these meals you can get
something to eat, anything from beef to buns, and the table in the
smoking-room is always loaded with cheese, sausage, ham, cakes and all
the little knick-knacks that tempt you to take one as you go by. And
yet there is surprise that some people are seasick.
You can get anything you want to drink except water, which is scarce,
and apparently only used for scrubbing and bathing. Of course the
steward will find you a little water, if you are from Kansas, but he
thinks you are sick, wants to add a hot-water bag, and suggests that
the ship doctor might help you some.
* * * * *
I have spoken before of the Dutch band. It is a good one, and loves to
play. The first concert is at 10 in the morning. There is orchestra
music during luncheon and dinner, and band concerts afternoon and
evening. I like a German band, or a Dutch band, so long as it sticks
to its proper répertoire. But there never was a German band that could
play “My Old Kentucky Home” and “Swanee River,” and every German band
persists in doing so in honor of the Americans. I suppose this desire
to do something you can’t do is not confined to Dutch musicians. I
know a man who can whistle like a bird, but he insists that he is a
violinist, and plays second fiddle. I know a singer with a really great
voice who persists in the theory that he can recite, which he can’t.
Therefore he is a great bore, and nobody thinks he can even sing.
Nearly all of us are afflicted some along this line, and the Dutch band
on the Potsdam is merely accenting the characteristic in brass.
* * * * *
Today I saw a whale. Every time I am on the ocean I see a whale.
At first nobody else could see it, but soon a large number could.
There was a good deal of excitement, and the passengers divided
into two factions, those who saw the whale and those who didn’t and
who evidently thought we didn’t. The argument lasted nearly all the
morning, and would be going on yet if a ship had not appeared in the
distance, and our passengers divided promptly as to whether it was
a Cunarder, a French liner, or a Norwegian tramp freighter. This
discussion will take our valuable time all the afternoon. Friends will
become enemies, and some of those who rallied around the whale story
are almost glaring at each other over the nationality of that distant
vessel. I am trying to keep out of this debate, as I am something of
a Hero because I saw the whale. I have already told of my nautical
experience on Cow creek, so while I feel I would be considered an
authority, it is better to let some of the other ambitious travelers
get a reputation.
The Lions of the Ship
STEAMSHIP POTSDAM, July 19.
There are always "lions" on a ship, not the kind that roar and shake
their manes, but those the other passengers point at and afterward
recall with pride. I often speak carelessly of the time I crossed with
Willie Vandergould, although he never left his room during the voyage
and was probably sleeping off the effects of a long spree. Once I was
a fellow-passenger with Julia Marlowe, a fact Julia never seemed to
recognize. There are always a few counts and capitalists on an ocean
steamer, and a ship without a lion is unfortunate. Our largest and
finest specimen is Booth Tarkington, the head of the Indiana school of
fiction, an author whose books have brought him fame and money, and a
playwright whose dramatizations have won success. He is the tamest lion
I ever crossed with. He is delightfully democratic, not a bit chesty,
but rather modest, and as friendly to a traveling Jayhawker as he is to
the distinguished members of the company. In fact, he understands and
speaks the Kansas language like a native. His ideal of life is to have
a home on an island in the track of the ocean steamers so he can sit on
the porch and watch the ships come and go. Not for me. It is too much
like living in a Kansas town where No. 3 and No. 4 do not stop, and
every day the locomotives snort and go by without even hesitating.
* * * * *
Tarkington is an honest man, so he says, and he tells good sea stories.
His favorite true story is of Toboga Bill, a big shark which followed
ships up and down the South-American coast, foraging off the scraps
the cooks threw overboard. Tarkington’s friend, Captain Harvey,
got to noticing that on every trip his boat was escorted by Toboga
Bill, whose bald spot on top and a wart on the nose made him easily
recognizable. Harvey got to feeding him regularly with the spoiled meat
and vegetables, and Toboga Bill would come to the surface, flop his
fin at the captain and thank him as plainly as a shark could do. After
several years of this mutual acquaintance the captain happened to be
in a small-boat going out to his ship at a Central-American port. The
boat upset, and the captain and sailors were immediately surrounded by
a herd of man-eating sharks. The shore was a mile away and the captain
swam that distance, the only one who escaped; and all the way he could
see Toboga Bill with his fin standing up straight, keeping the other
sharks from his old friend. Occasionally Toboga would give the captain
a gentle shove, and finally pushed him onto the beach.
This story Tarkington admitted sounded like a fish story, but he has a
motor-boat named Toboga Bill, which verifies the tale.
* * * * *
That reminded me of a Kansas fish story which I introduced to the
audience. Everybody in Kansas knows of the herd of hornless catfish
which has been bred near the Bowersock dam at Lawrence. Some years ago
Mr. Bowersock, who owns the dam that furnishes power for the mill and
other factories, conceived the idea that big Kaw river catfish going
through the mill-race and onto the water-wheel added much to the power
generated. Then he read that fish are very sensitive to music. So he
hired a man with an accordion to stand over the mill-race and play.
The catfish came from up and down stream to hear the music, and almost
inevitably drifted through the race, onto the wheel, and increased
the power. The fishes’ horns used to get entangled in the wheel and
injure the fish; so Mr. Bowersock, who is a kind-hearted man and very
persistent, had a lot of the fish caught and dehorned, and in a year or
two he had a large herd of hornless catfish. These fish not only turn
out to hear the music, but they have learned to enjoy the trip through
the mill-race and over the wheel, so that every Sunday or oftener whole
families of catfish--and they have large families--come to Bowersock’s
dam to shoot the chutes something as people go out to ride on the
scenic railway. Whenever the water in the river gets low Mr. Bowersock
has the band play: the catfish gather and go round and round over the
wheel, furnishing power for the Bowersock mill when every other wheel
on the river is idle from lack of water.
There were some skeptical folks who heard my simple story and affected
to disbelieve. But I assured them that it could be easily proven, and
if they would go to Lawrence I would show them the Bowersock dam and
the catfish. It is always a good idea to have the proofs for a fish
story.
* * * * *
The next “lion” on board is Gov. Fook, returning from the Dutch West
Indies, where he has been governing the islands and Dutch Guiana.
The governor is a well-informed gentleman, and a splendid player of
pinochle. The Dutch have the thrifty habit of making their colonies
pay. They are not a “world power” and do not have to be experimenting
with efforts to lift the white man’s burden. Their idea is that the
West-Indian and the East-Indian who live under the Dutch flag shall
work. The American idea is to educate and convert the heathen and
pension them from labor. Our theory sounds all right, but it results
in unhappy Filipinos and increased expense for Americans. The Dutch
colonials pay their way whether they get an education or not.
One unfamiliar with modern steamship travel would think that the
captain and his first and second officers were the important officials
on board. They are not. The officers rank about as follows: 1st, the
cook; 2nd, the engineer; 3rd, the barber, and after that the rest. The
cook on an ocean steamer gets more pay than the captain, and is now
ranked as an officer. The managing director of a big German company was
accustomed on visiting any ship of their line, to first shake hands
with the cook and then with the captain. When one of the officers
suggested that he was not following etiquette he answered that there
was no trouble getting captains and lieutenants but it was a darned
hard job to find a cook. The cook has to buy, plan meals, supervise the
kitchen and run it economically for the company and satisfactorily for
the passengers, for over 2,000 people.
The barber is the man on the ship who knows everything for sure. Ask
the captain when we will get to Rotterdam and he will qualify and trim
his answer by referring to possible winds and tides, and he won’t say
exactly. Ask the barber and he will tell you we will get there at 10
o’clock on Friday night. He knows everything going on in the boat, from
the kind of freight carried in the hold to the meaning of the colors
painted on the smokestack. During this voyage I have had more numerous
and interesting facts than anybody, because I have not fooled with
talking to the captain or the purser or the steward, but gotten my
information straight from the fountain of knowledge, the barber shop.
However, this is not peculiar to ships. The same principle applies at
Hutchinson and every other town.
Ocean Currents
STEAMSHIP POTSDAM, July 21.
This is the eleventh day of the voyage from New York, and if the
Potsdam does not have a puncture or bust a singletree she will arrive
at Rotterdam late tonight. The Potsdam is a most comfortable boat, but
it is in no hurry. It keeps below the Hutchinson speed limit of fifteen
miles an hour. But a steamship never stops for water or oil, or to
sidetrack or to wait for connections. This steady pounding of fourteen
miles an hour makes an easy speed for the passenger, and the verdict of
this ship’s company is that the Potsdam is a bully ship and the captain
and the cook are all right.
* * * * *
Nearly all the way across the Atlantic we have been in the Gulf stream.
I have read of this phenomenal current which originates in the Gulf of
Mexico and comes up the eastern coast of the United States so warm that
it affects the climate wherever it touches. Then nearly opposite New
England it turns and crosses the Atlantic, a river of warm water many
miles wide, flowing through the ocean, which is comparatively cold.
This stream is a help to the boats going in its direction, although it
has the bad feature of frequent fogs caused by the condensation which
comes when the warm and cold air currents meet. The Gulf stream is
believed to be responsible for the green of Ireland and for the winter
resorts of southern England. It goes all the way across the Atlantic
and into the English Channel, with a branch off to Ireland. What causes
the Gulf stream? I forget the scientific terms, but this is the way it
is, according to my friend Mr. Vischer, formerly of the German navy.
The water in the Gulf of Mexico is naturally warm. The motion of the
earth, from west to east, and other currents coming into the gulf,
crowd the warm water out and send the big wide stream into the Atlantic
with a whirl which starts it in a northerly and easterly direction.
The same Providence that makes the grass grow makes the course of the
current, and it flows for thousands of miles, gradually dissipating at
the edges, but still a warm-water river until it breaks on the coast of
the British Isles and into the North Sea. Perhaps Mr. Vischer would not
recognize this explanation, but I have translated it into a vernacular
which I can understand.
* * * * *
The Gulf stream reminds me of the Mediterranean. Not having much else
to worry about, I have gone to worrying over the Mediterranean Sea.
The ocean always flows into the sea. The current through the strait
of Gibraltar is always inward. Many great rivers contribute to the
blue waters of the great sea. There is no known outlet. Why does
not the Mediterranean run over and fill the Sahara desert, which is
considerably below the sea-level? Scientists have tried to figure
this out, and the only tangible theory is that the bottom of the
Mediterranean leaks badly in some places, and that the water finds its
way by subterranean channels back to the ocean. What would happen if an
eruption of Vesuvius should stop up the drain-pipe? Now worry.
Tonight we saw another phenomenon, the aurora borealis. It looked to
me like a beautiful sunset in the north. We are sailing in the North
Sea along the coast of Belgium, and the water reaches northward to the
pole. The aurora borealis is another phenomenon not easily explained,
but Mr. Vischer says it is probably the reflection of the sun from the
ice mirror of the Arctic. And it does make you feel peculiar to see
what is apparently the light of the sunset flare up toward the “Dipper”
and the North Star.
* * * * *
Some of our passengers disembarked today at Boulogne. This was the
first time the Potsdam had paused since she left New York a week ago
last Tuesday. This was the stop for the passengers who go direct to
Paris. The Dutch who are homeward bound and those of us who think it
best to fool around a little before encountering the dangers of Paris,
continue to Rotterdam. We should be spending the evening with maps and
guide books preparing ourselves for the art galleries, cathedrals,
canals and windmills. As a matter of fact, we are wondering what is
going on at home. There is a balance-wheel in the human heart that
makes the ordinary citizen who is far afield or afloat turn to the
thoughts of the home which he left, seeking a change.
* * * * *
A smoking-room story: An American in a European art gallery was heading
an aggregation of family and friends for a study of art. His assurance
was more pronounced than his knowledge. “See this beautiful Titian,” he
said. “What glorious color, and mark the beauty of the small lines.
Isn’t it a jim dandy? And next to it is a Rubens by the same artist!”
The Dutch Folks
ROTTERDAM, HOLLAND, July 23.
It seemed to me unnecessary, but I had to explain to some friends why
I was going especially to Holland. It is the biggest little country
in the world. In art it rivals Italy, in business it competes with
England, historically it has had more thrills to the mile than France,
and in appearance it is the oddest, queerest, and most different from
our own country, of all the nations of central Europe. Holland gives
you more for your money and your time than any other, and that’s why I
am back here to renew the hurried acquaintance with the Dutch made a
few years ago.
Landing in Rotterdam was an experiment. The guide books and the tourist
authorities pass Rotterdam over with brief mention. Baedeker, the
tripper’s friend, suggests that you can see Rotterdam in a half-day.
That is because Rotterdam is short on picture galleries and cathedrals.
It is a great, busy city of a half-million people, and one of the
most active commercially in the world. It is the port where the boats
from the Rhine meet the ships of the sea. It is the greatest freight
shipping and receiving port of northern Europe. It is the coming city
of the north, because of its natural advantages in cheap freight rates.
After looking it over hurriedly it seems to me to be one of the most
interesting of cities. I am not going to run away from cathedrals and
galleries. I am not intending to dodge when I see a beautiful landscape
coming. But I have done my duty in the past and have seen the great
cathedrals and the exhibitions of art. No one can come to Europe and
not see these things once, for if he did he would not be able to lift
up his head in the presence of other travelers. But he does not have
to do them a second time. If I want to see pictures of Dutch ladies
labeled “Madonna,” I will see them. If I don’t want to, I do not have
to. In other words, if I go to the “tourist delights” it will be my own
fault.
I would rather see the people themselves than the pictures of them.
I want to observe how they work, what they work for, what their
prospects are, and wherein they differ from the great Americans.
* * * * *
Man made most of Holland. Nearly all of the country is below the level
of the sea, much of it many feet below. All that keeps the tide of the
North Sea from flooding the country with from ten to a hundred feet of
water every day are the dikes which man has built. Behind these huge
embankments lies a country as flat as the flattest prairie in Kansas.
A few sandhills and an occasional little rise of ground might stick
out of the water if the dikes broke, but I doubt it. This “made” land
has been fertilized and built up by the silt of the rivers, added to
by the labor and science of man, until it is a vast market garden.
The water of the rivers is diverted in every direction into canals.
There is no current to the rivers; the surface is too flat, and the
fresh water is backed up twice a day by the ocean tides at the mouths.
There are practically no locks and the movement of the water is hardly
perceptible, except near the coast, where it responds to the advance
and retreat of the sea. These canals are an absolute necessity for
drainage, otherwise the country would be a swamp. Then they are used
as roads, and practically all the freight is carried to market cheaply
in canal-boats. The canals also serve as fences. The drainage water is
pumped by windmills, which are then used to furnish power for every
imaginable manufacturing purpose, from sawing lumber to grinding wheat.
The cheap wind-power enabled the people to clear the land of water. So
you see why there are dikes, canals and windmills in Holland: because
they were the only available instruments in the hand of man to beat
back the sea and build a productive soil. They were not inserted in the
Holland landscape for beauty or for art’s sake, but because they were
necessities; and yet great artists come to Holland to paint pictures
of these practical things, and when they want to add more beauty they
insert Dutch cattle and wooden shoes. All of which shows that the plain
everyday things around us are really picturesque; and they are, whether
you look at the sandhills along the Arkansas or the dunes along the
North Sea.
* * * * *
In this little country, containing 12,500 square miles of land and
water, smaller than the seventh congressional district of Kansas, live
almost 6,000,000 of the busiest people on earth. Their character may be
drawn from their history. They first beat the ocean out of the arena
and then made the soil. They met and overcame more obstacles than any
other people in getting their land. And then for several centuries they
had to fight all the rest of Europe to keep from being absorbed by one
or the other of the great powers. They drove out the Spaniards at a
time when Spain was considered invincible. They licked England on the
sea, and the Dutch Admiral Tromp sailed up and down the Channel with a
broom at the mast of his ship. They drove Napoleon’s soldiers and his
king out of the country. They never willingly knuckled down to anybody,
and they never stayed down long when they were hit.
The Dutch have for centuries been considered the best traders in
Europe. They have the ports for commerce and they have the money.
They own 706,000 square miles of colonies, with a population six
times as large as their own. From the beginning they have been ruled
by merchants and business men, rather than by kings and princes, by
men who knew how to buy and sell and fight. They have been saving and
thrifty, and can dig up more cash than any other bunch of inhabitants
on the globe. They have sunk some money in American railroads, but they
have made it back, and they always take interest. Market-gardening and
manufacturing and trade have been their resources, and nothing can beat
that three of a kind for piling up profits and providing a way to keep
the money working.
Of course these characteristics and this environment have made the
Dutch peculiar in some ways, and they are generally counted a little
close or “near.” They habitually use their small coin, the value of
two-fifths of an American cent, and they want and give all that is
coming. They have good horses, fat stomachs, and lots of children. They
are pleasant but not effusive, and they are as proud of their country
as are the inhabitants of any place on earth. They believe in everybody
working, including the women and the dogs. Their struggle with the sea
never ends, and they follow the same persistent course in every line of
development. They are so clean it is a wonder they are comfortable, and
they believe in eating and drinking and having a good time, just so it
doesn’t cost too much. They are a great people, and here’s looking at
them.
In Old Dordrecht
DORDRECHT, July 23.
This is the oldest town in Holland, and once upon a time was the
great commercial city. It is about fifteen miles from Rotterdam, and
remember that fifteen miles is a long distance in this country. It is
built upon an island; two rivers and any number of canals run around
it and through it whenever the tide ebbs or flows. Good-sized ocean
steamers come to its wharves, and until other cities developed deeper
harbors Dordrecht was the Hutchinson of southwest Holland. And now let
me explain that the people of this country do not call it Holland, but
The Netherland. Originally Holland was the western part of the present
Netherland. Dordrecht is in old South Holland. About nine hundred years
ago the Count of Holland, who then ruled in this precinct, decided to
levy a tax or a tariff on all goods shipped on this route, the main
traveled road from England to the Orient. The other counts and kings
and bishops kicked, but after a fight the right of the Count of
Holland was vindicated, and he built the city of Dordrecht as a sort of
customs house. This was in 1008. For several hundred years Dordrecht
prospered and was known as a great commercial city. Then Antwerp,
Rotterdam and Amsterdam came forward with better harbors, and Dordrecht
took a back seat. But it has always been one of the important places
in The Netherland. When William of Orange took hold of the revolution
against Spain, the first conference of the representatives of the Dutch
states was held in Dordrecht, and it was always loyal to the cause of
Dutch freedom. The best hotel and restaurant in the city today is The
Orange, named for the royal house which has so long been at the head of
the Dutch government. My idea of a really important statesman is one
for whom hotels and cigars are named centuries after he has passed away.
* * * * *
This is Sunday, and I am forced to believe that the Dutch are not good
churchgoers. We went to the evening service in the great cathedral. In
fact, we went to the cathedral and suddenly the service began without
our having time to retire gracefully. So we decided to stay, and in a
prominent place was a list of the prices of seats. Some cost ten cents,
some five cents, and some were marked free. I handed ten cents to the
lady in charge, and we took two seats in the rear, which I afterward
discovered were free. The women seem to run the church much as they
do at home. The Dutch hymns were not so bad, but the Dutch sermon was
not interesting to me. During the closing song, we thought we would
slip out quietly, but when we reached the door we found it locked. The
custom is to lock the door and allow no one to enter or leave during
the service, but as a special favor to Americans, who evidently did not
know what they were doing, the guardian of the door unlocked it, and
out we went amid general interest of the congregation.
* * * * *
We came from Rotterdam on a little steam-boat, which scooted along the
rivers and canals like a street car. Very often the canal was built
higher than the adjoining land, and it gave the peculiar feeling of
boating in the air. There is no waste ground. Every foot of it not
occupied by a house or a chicken-yard, is pasture or under cultivation.
Every farmer has a herd of those black-and-white cattle. Some of the
herds are as many as six or seven cows. But every cow acted as if
she were doing her full duty toward making Holland the wealthiest of
nations.
* * * * *
The streets of Dordrecht are generally narrow, like those of all old
towns. Many of the buildings are very old, and a favorite style of
architecture is to have the front project several feet forward over the
street. The tops of opposite buildings often almost meet. I don’t see
why they do not meet and come down kerwhack, but they don’t. Imagine
these quaint streets with old Dutch houses, white and blue, with red
tiled roofs, and green and yellow thrown in to give them color, with
angles and dormers and curious corners, the tops projecting toward
one another, and you can see how interesting a Dutch street can be if
it tries, as it does in Dordrecht. Of course in the outer and newer
parts of the town are larger streets and more modern houses, with
beautiful gardens and flower beds that would baffle a painter for
color, but old Dordrecht is the most interesting. Add to the street
picture a canal down the middle, and you get a frequent variation. Put
odd Dutch boats in the water, fill them with freight and children, and
you have another. If this were not picturesque it would be grotesque to
American eyes, but it is the actual development of Dutch civilization,
and it is the thing you pay money for when some artist catches the
inspiration which he can get here if anywhere.
[Illustration: THE SCRUBBING-BRUSH THE NATIONAL EMBLEM OF HOLLAND]
* * * * *
Of course the streets are paved, and they are as clean as the floor of
an ordinary American dwelling. Everyone knows that the Dutch are clean
and that their national emblem ought to be a scrubbing-brush. They
are so clean that it almost hurts. Very often there are no sidewalks,
and when there are they are not level, and are generally fenced in.
They belong to the abutting property, and are not to be walked on
by the public. The people walk in the street, and that custom is a
little hard to get used to. Before the front window of nearly every
house is a mirror, so fastened that those within the house can see
up and down the street, observe who is coming and who is going, and
where. This custom, if introduced at home, would save a good deal of
neck-stretching. But at first one is overly conscious of the many eyes
which are observing his walk and the many minds which are undoubtedly
trying to guess just where and why and who. But this mirror custom does
not bother the Dutch young folks, not much. It is also the custom for
the young man and his sweetheart to parade along the street hand in
hand, arm in arm, or catch-as-catch-can, if they want to,--and they
want to a great deal. At first this looked like a rude demonstration of
affection, but after you have observed it some, say for an hour or so,
it doesn’t seem half bad,--if you were only Dutch.
* * * * *
Dordrecht has about 40,000 people, and all of them are on the street
or at the window on Sunday. The saloons are open, but nothing is sold
stronger than gin. The Dutch in a quiet, gentlemanly and ladylike way,
are evidently trying to consume all the beer that can be made in
Holland or imported. Of course they can’t succeed, but, as the story
goes, they can probably make the breweries work nights. There is really
a need for a temperance organization in this country, and I should say
it would have work enough to last it several thousand years.
The Dutchesses
ROTTERDAM, July 24.
The secret of the success of the Dutch is no secret at all. Everybody
works, not excepting father, grandfather and grandmother. I suppose
this habit began with the unceasing fight against the sea, the building
of the dikes, the pumping out of the water, and the construction of a
soil. It has continued until there is no other people more persistently
industrious. They rise early and get busy. The women cook and scrub
and work on the canal-boats, in the shops and in the fields. The
children go to school eleven months in the year. The men are stout,
quick, and work from early to late. Even the dogs work in Holland.
At first it seemed rather hard to see the dogs hitched to the little
carts and pulling heavy loads, sometimes a man riding on the cart. This
is a serious country for the canine, and must be the place where the
phrase “worked like a dog” got its start. In most places the dog is
the companion and pet of man, but in Holland he has to do his part in
making a living, and he soon learns to draw the load, pulling hard and
conscientiously on the traces. He has little time to fight and frolic,
but he has the great pleasure of the rest that comes from hard labor.
However, if I were a dog and were picking out a country for a location,
I would stay far away from Holland. It is no uncommon sight to see a
woman with a strap over her shoulders dragging a canal-boat or pulling
a little wagon. In fact, the women of The Netherland have rights which
they are not even asking in the United States, and no one disputes
their prerogative of hard work. There are no “Suffragettes” in Holland,
but a woman can do nearly anything she wants to unless it is vote,
which she apparently does not care for. There are many rich Hollanders;
in fact, there are few that are poor. But they do not constitute a
leisure class. The wealthy Dutch gent merely works the harder and the
wealthy Dutch “vrouw” scrubs and manages the household or runs the
store just as she did in the earlier years of struggle.
Speaking of the Dutch women, I think they are good-looking. They are
almost invariably strong and well in appearance, with good complexions,
clever eyes and capable expression. They may weigh a little strong for
some, but that is a matter of taste. The old Dutch peasant costumes are
still worn in places, but as a rule their clothes come from the same
models as those for the American women. The Dutchess has been reared
to work, to manage, and to advise with her man. She is intelligent in
appearance and quick in action. She is educated and companionable.
What if her waist line disappears? What if she has no ankles, only
feet and legs? Perhaps it will be thought that I am going too far in
my investigation, but the Dutch ladies ride bicycles so generally that
even a man from America can see a few things, no matter how hard he
tries to look the other way and comes near getting run over.
* * * * *
The Queen of Holland is a woman. This is not a startling statement,
for so far as I know a man has never been a queen in any country. But
there is no king. Queen Wilhelmina’s husband, Prince Henry, is not a
king. If there is any ruling to do in Holland it is done by Wilhelmina.
Henry can’t even appoint a notary public. No one pays any attention
to him, and I understand Wilhelmina has given it out that what Henry
says does not go with her. I am trying to investigate the status of
affairs in the royal family, because I had entertained the idea that
Wilhelmina was an unfortunate young queen with a bad husband. That may
have been so a few years ago, but now I understand she bats poor Henry
around scandalously, pays no heed to his wishes, and pointedly calls
his attention about three times a day to the fact that he is nothing
but a one-horse prince while she is the boss of the family and the
kingdom. This pleases the Dutch immensely, for Henry is a German and
the Dutch don’t like the Germans. They think the Germans are conceited
and arrogant, and that Emperor William is planning to eventually annex
The Netherland to Germany. So every time Wilhelmina turns down the
German prince all the Dutch people think it is fine, and her popularity
is immense. Henry gets a good salary, but his job would be a hard one
for a self-respecting American. I understand he is much dissatisfied,
but he was not raised to a trade, and if Wilhelmina should stop his pay
he would go hungry and thirsty, two conditions which would make life
intolerable for a German prince.
* * * * *
Wilhelmina has a daughter, two years old, named Juliana. I suppose
Henry is related to Juliana, but he gets no credit for it. Everywhere
you go you see pictures of Wilhelmina and Juliana, but not of Henry. A
princess is really what the Dutch want, for their monarch has actually
no power, and the government is entirely managed by the representatives
of the people. But a prince would likely be wild, and might want to mix
into public affairs. A princess makes a better figurehead of the state.
She will be satisfied with a new dress and a hand-decorated crown, and
not be wanting an army and battleships as a prince might do. Wilhelmina
represents to the Dutch people the ruling family of Orange, which
brought them through many crises, and Juliana is another Orange. Henry
is only a lemon which the Germans handed to them.