(_BY THE "VACUUS VIATOR."_)
He is an elderly amiable little Dutchman in a soft felt hat; his name
is BOSCH, and he is taking me about. _Why_ I engaged him I don't quite
know--unless from a general sense of helplessness in Holland, and
a craving for any kind of companionship. Now I have got him, I feel
rather more helpless than ever--a sort of composite of _Sandford_
and _Merton_, with a didactic, but frequently incomprehensible _Dutch
Barlow_. My _Sandford_ half would like to exhibit an intelligent
curiosity, but is generally suppressed by _Merton_, who has a morbid
horror of useful information. Not that BOSCH is remarkably erudite,
but nevertheless he contrives to reduce me to a state of imbecility,
which I catch myself noting with a pained surprise. There is a statue
in the Plein, and the _Sandford_ element in me finds a satisfaction in
recognising it aloud as WILLIAM the Silent. It is--but, as my _Merton_
part thinks, a fellow _would_ be a fool if he didn't recognise WILLIAM
after a few hours in Holland--his images, in one form or another,
are tolerably numerous. Still, BOSCH is gratified. "Yass, dot is
ole VOLLIAM," he says, approvingly, as to a precocious infant just
beginning to take notice. "Lokeer," he says, "you see dot Apoteek?" He
indicates a chemist's shop opposite, with nothing remarkable about it
externally, except a Turk's head with his tongue out over the door.
"Yes, I, speaking for _Sandford_ and _Merton_, see it--has it some
historical interest--did VOLLIAM get medicine there, or what?" "Woll,
dis mornin dare vas two sairvans dere, and de von cot two blaces out
of de odder's haid, and afderwarts he go opstairs and vas hang himself
mit a pedbost," BOSCH evidently rather proud of this as illustrating
the liveliness of The Hague. "Was he mad?" "Yass, he vas mard, mit
a vife and seeks childrens." "No, but was he out of his senses?" "I
tink it vas oud of Omsterdam he vas com," says BOSCH. "But how did
it happen?" "Wol-sare, de broprietor vas die, and leaf de successor
de pusiness, and he dells him in von mons he will go, begause he
nod egsamin to be a Chimigal--so he do it, and dey dake him to de
hosbital, and I tink _he_ vas die too by now!" adds BOSCH, cheerfully.
Very sad affair evidently--but a little complicated. _Sandford_ would
like to get to the bottom of it, but _Merton_ convinced there is _no_
bottom. So, between us, subject allowed to drop. _Sandford_ (now
in the ascendant again) notices, as the clever boy, inscription on
house-front, "Hier woonden GROEN VAN PRINSTERER, 1838-76." "I suppose
that means VAN PRINSTERER lived here, BOSCH?" "Yass, dot vas it." "And
who was he?" "He vas--wol, he vos a Member of de Barliaments." "Was
he celebrated?" "Celebrated? oh, yass!" "What did he _do_?" (I think
_Merton_ gets this in.) "Do?" says BOSCH, quite indignantly, "he nefer
do _nodings_!" BOSCH takes me into the Fishmarket, when he directs my
attention to a couple of very sooty live storks, who are pecking about
at the refuse. "Dose birts are shtorks; hier dey vas oblige to keep
alvays two shtorks for de arms of de Haag. Ven de yong shtorks porn,
de old vons vas kill." _Sandford_ shocked--_Merton_ sceptical. "Keel
dem? Oh, yass, do anytings mit dem ven dey vas old," says BOSCH,
and adds:--"Ve haf de breference mit de shtorks, eh?" What _is_ he
driving at? "Yass--ven _ve_ vas old, ve vas nod kill." This reminds
BOSCH--_Barlow_-like--of an anecdote. "Dere vas a vrent to me," he
begins, "he com and say to me, 'BOSCH, I am god so shtout and my bark
is so dick, I can go no more on my lacks--vat vas I do?' To him I say,
'Wol, I dell you vat I do mit you--I dake you at de booshair to be cot
op; I tink you vas make vary goot shdeak-meat!'" Wonder whether this
is a typical sample of BOSCH's _badinage_. "What did he say to that,
BOSCH?" "Oh, he vas vair moch loff, a-course!" says BOSCH, with the
natural complacency of a successful humorist.
[Illustration: "Some story of a scandalous but infinitely humorous
nature."]
We go into the Old Prison, and see some horrible implements of
torture, which seem to exhilarate BOSCH. "Lokeer!" he says, "Dis vas a
pinition" (BOSCH for "punishment") "mit a can. Dey lie de man down and
vasten his foots, and efery dime he was shdrook mit de can, he jomp op
and hit his vorehaid.... Hier dey lie down de beoples on de back, and
pull dis shdring queeck, and all dese tings go roundt, and preak deir
bones. Ven de pinition vas feenish you vas det." He shows where the
Water-torture was practised. "Nottice 'ow de vater vas vork a 'ole in
de tile," he chuckles. "I tink de tile vas vary hardt det, eh?" Then
he points out a pole with a spiked prong. "Tief-catcher--put'em in
de tief's nack--and ged 'im!" Before a grim-looking cauldron he halts
appreciatively. "You know vat dat vas for?" he says. "Dat vas for de
blode-foots; put 'em in dere, yass, and light de vire onderneat."
No idea what "_blode-foots_" may be, but from the relish in BOSCH's
tone, evidently something very unpleasant, so don't press him for
explanations. We go upstairs, and see some dark and very mouldy
dungeons, which BOSCH is most anxious that I should enter. Make him go
in _first_, for the surroundings seem to have excited his sense of the
humorous to such a degree, that he might be unable to resist locking
me in, and leaving me, if I gave him a chance.
Outside at last, thank goodness! The Groote Kerk, according to BOSCH,
"is not vort de see," so we don't see it. _Sandford_ has a sneaking
impression that I ought to go in, but _Merton_ glad to be let off.
We go to see the pictures at the Mauritshuis instead. BOSCH exchanges
greetings with the attendants in Dutch. "Got _another_ of 'em
in tow, you see--and collar-work, _I_ can tell you!" would be a
free translation, I suspect, of his remarks. Must say that, in a
Picture-gallery, BOSCH is a superfluous luxury. He _does_ take my
ignorance just a trifle too much for granted. He _might_ give me
credit for knowing the story of ADAM and EVE, at all events! "De
Sairpan gif EVA de opple, an' EVA she gif him to ADAM," BOSCH
carefully informs me, before a "_Paradise_," by RUBENS and BRUEGHEL.
This rouses my _Merton_ half to inquire what ADAM did with it. "Oh,
_he_ ead him too!" says BOSCH in perfect good faith. I do wish,
too, he wouldn't lead me up to PAUL POTTER's "_Bull_," and ask me
enthusiastically if it isn't "real meat." I shouldn't mind it so much
if there were not several English people about, without couriers--but
there _are_. My only revenge is (as _Merton_) to carefully pick out
the unsigned canvases and ask BOSCH who painted them; whereupon, BOSCH
endeavours furtively to make out the label on the frames, and then
informs me in desperation, "it was '_School_.'--yass, _he_ baint
him!" BOSCH kindly explains the subject of every picture in detail.
He tells me a DROOCHSLOOT represents a "balsham pedder." I suppose
I look bewildered, for he adds--"oppen air tance mit a village."
"Hier dey vas haf a tispute; dis man say de ham vas more value as de
cheese--dere is de cheese, and dere is the ham." "Hier is an old man
dot marry a yong vife, and two tevils com in, and de old man he ron
avay." "Hier he dress him in voman, and de vife is vrighten." "Hier is
JAN STEEN himself as a medicine, and he veel de yong voman's polse and
say dere is nodings de madder, and de modder ask him to trink a glass
of vine." "Hier is de beach at Skavening--now dey puild houses on
de dunes--bot de beach is schdill dere." Such are BOSCH's valuable
and instructive comments, to which, as representing _Sandford_ and
_Merton_, I listen with depressed docility. All the same, can't help
coming to the conclusion that Art is _not_ BOSCH's strong point.
Shall come here again--alone. We go on to the Municipal Museum, where
he shows me what _he_ considers the treasures of the collection--a
glass goblet, engraved "mit dails of tobaggo bipes," and the pipes
themselves; a painting of a rose "mit ade beople's faces in de leafs;"
and a drawing of "two pirts mit only von foots."
Outside again. BOSCH shows me a house. "Lokeer. In dot house leef an
oldt lady all mit herself and ade sairvans. She com from Friesland,
yassir." Really, I think BOSCH is going to be interesting--at last.
There is a sly twinkle in his eye, denoting some story of a scandalous
but infinitely humorous nature. "Well, BOSCH, go on--what about the
old lady?" I ask, eagerly, as _Merton_. "Wol, Sir," says BOSCH, "she
nefer go noveres." ... That's _all_! "A devilish interesting story,
_Sumph_, indeed!" to quote _Mr. Wagg_.
But, as BOSCH frequently reminds me, "It vas pedder, you see, as a
schendlemans like you go apout mit me; I dell you tings dot vas nod in
de guide-books." Which I am not in a position to deny.
* * * * *
BY ONE OF THE UNEMPLOYED.--"It is a curious fact," wrote the Recording
Angel, a very superior sort of person to "the Printer's Devil," on
the _Daily Telegraph_, "that in Greater London last week the births
registered were just one more than twice the number of deaths. Thus
grows the population in this great Babylon." Very appropriate, in
this instance, is the title of "Great Baby-lon." If you put it down
an "e," my Lord, and spell it "berths," then these are by no means in
proportion to the unemployed youth in search of them.
* * * * *
[Illustration: DISSOLUTION--(AS THE ENEMY OF THE LONDON SEASON).]
There was a sound of revelry by day,
And England's Capital had gathered then,
Her Beauty and her Masherdom, and gay
Spring's sun shone o'er smart women and swell men;
A thousand shops shone showily; and when
MAY came to Mayfair, FLORA to Pall-Mall,
Shrewd eyes winked hope to eyes which winked again,
And maids heard sounds as of the marriage-bell.
But hush! hark! a harsh sound strikes like a sudden knell!
Did ye not hear it? Is it howling wind?
The tram-car rattling o'er the stony street?
The groans of M.P.'s wearily confined
To the dull House when night and morning meet,
Dragged to Divisions drear with dawdling feet?
No, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
The street, the hall its echoes now repeat,
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! Arm! it is--it is--the Elections' opening roar!
'Tis in our midst--that figure draped and dim,
Whose mocking music makes us all afraid.
"Death as the Foe!" Can it indeed be _Him_?
Duller, more dirge-like tune was never played
On strings more spirit-chilling. Feet are stayed
Though in mid-waltz, and laughter, though at height,
Hushes, and maidens modishly arrayed
For matrimonial conquest, shrink with fright;
And Fashion palsied sits, and Shopdom takes to flight.
Ah! then and there are hurryings to and fro
And gathering tears, and poutings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which some short hours ago
Glowed with the deep delights of Dance and Dress;
And there are sudden partings, such as press
The hope from Spoons of promise, meaning sighs
Which ne'er may be repeated; who can guess
If ever more shall meet those mutual eyes,
When Dissolution snaps the Season's tenderest ties?
And there is scuttling in hot haste: the steed,
The Coaching Meet, the Opera's latest star,
The Row, the River, the Vitellian feed,--
All the munitions of the Social War,
Seem fruitless now, when peal on peal afar
And near, the beat of the great Party Drum
Rouses M.P.'s to platform joust and jar,
While tongue-tied dullards scarcely dare be dumb,
When the Whips whisper "Go!" Wirepullers clamour "Come!"
"Too bad! Too bad!" The Influenza chilled,
Court-mourning marred, the Season's earliest prime,
And now, just as with hope young breasts are filled,
When young leaves still are verdant on the lime,
When diners-out are having a good time,
When Epsom's o'er and Ascot is at hand;
To cut all short, is scarcely less than crime.
Confusion on that wrangling party-band
Whose Dissolution deals the doldrums round the land!
Ah! wild and high those Phantom-fiddlings rise!--
All jocund June with palsying terror thrills;
Fashion sits frozen dead with staring eyes.
How that dread dirge the ambient Summer fills
Savage and shrill! Smart frocks, soft snowy frills,
Long trains which dancing Beauty deftly steers.
Through waltzes wild or devious quadrilles,--
All vanish; bosoms white, beset with fears;
Beat flight as that fell strain falls harsh on Beauty's ears.
And June yet waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Springtide's night-drops as they pass
Grieving,--if aught that's modish ever grieves,--
Over the unreturning chance. Alas!
Their hopes are all cut down ere falls the grass.
That with corn-harvest might have seen full blow.
See how foiled Shopdom flies, a huddled mass
Of disappointment, hurrying from the foe,
Who all their Season's prospects shatters, and lays low.
Last month beheld them full of lusty life.
Beauty, and Wealth, and Pleasure, proudly gay;
This music brings the signal-sound of strife,
This month the marshalling to arms. Away!
Party's magnificently sham array
The muster of Mode's mob will soon have rent.
Play on, O Phantom, ominously play!
Death as the Foe! They fly before thee, blent,
Maid, Matron, Masher, Mime, in general discontent!
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE DARWINIAN THEORY--VARIATION FROM ENVIRONMENT.
"KNOCKED 'EM IN THE OLD KENT KOAD!"
"ATTRACTED ALL EYES AT CHURCH PARADE."]
* * * * *