If you all could be here with me today, what fine times we might have
walking through this beautiful Dutch city! How we should stare at the
crooked houses, standing with their gable ends to the street; at the
little slanting mirrors fastened outside of the windows; at the wooden
shoes and dogcarts nearby; the windmills in the distance; at the great
warehouses; at the canals, doing the double duty of streets and rivers,
and at the singular mingling of trees and masts to be seen in every
direction. Ah, it would be pleasant, indeed! But here I sit in a great
hotel looking out upon all these things, knowing quite well that not
even the spirit of the Dutch, which seems able to accomplish anything,
can bring you at this moment across the moment. There is one comfort,
however, in going through these wonderful Holland towns without you--it
would be dreadful to have any of the party tumble into the canals; and
then these lumbering Dutch wagons, with their heavy wheels, so very far
apart; what should I do if a few dozen of you were to fall under THEM?
And, perhaps, one of the wildest of my boys might harm a stork, and then
all Holland would be against us! No. It is better as it is. You will
be coming, one by one, as years go on, to see the whole thing for
yourselves.
Holland is as wonderful today as it was when, more than twenty years
ago, Hans and Gretel skated on the frozen Y. In fact, more wonderful,
for every day increases the marvel of its not being washed away by the
sea. Its cities have grown, and some of its peculiarities have been
washed away by contact with other nations; but it is Holland still,
and always will be--full of oddity, courage and industry--the pluckiest
little country on earth. I shall not tell you in this letter of its
customs, its cities, its palaces, churches, picture galleries and
museums--for these are described in the story--except to say that they
are here still, just the same, in this good year 1873, for I have seen
them nearly all within a week.
Today an American boy and I, seeing some children enter an old house in
the business part of Amsterdam, followed them in--and what do you think
we found? An old woman, here in the middle of summer, selling hot water
and fire! She makes her living by it. All day long she sits tending
her great fires of peat and keeping the shining copper tanks above them
filled with water. The children who come and go carry away in a curious
stone pail their kettle of boiling water and their blocks of burning
peat. For these they give her a Dutch cent, which is worth less than
half of one of ours. In this way persons who cannot afford to keep a
fire burning in hot weather may yet have their cup of tea or coffee and
bit of boiled fish and potato.
After leaving the old fire woman, who nodded a pleasant good-bye to
us, and willingly put our stivers in her great outside pocket, we drove
through the streets enjoying the singular sights of a public washing
day. Yes, in certain quarters of the city, away from the canals, the
streets were lively with washerwomen hard at work. Hundreds of them
in clumsy wooden shoes, with their tucked-up skirts, bare arms, and
close-fitting caps, were bending over tall wooden tubs that reached as
high as their waists--gossiping and rubbing, rubbing and gossiping--with
perfect unconcern, in the public thoroughfare, and all washing with cold
water instead of using hot, as we do. What a grand thing it would be for
our old fire woman if boiling water were suddenly to become the fashion
on these public washing days!
And now goodbye. Oh! I must tell you one more thing. We found today in
an Amsterdam bookstore this story of Hans Brinker told in Dutch. It is
a queer-looking volume, beautifully printed, and with colored pictures,
but filled with such astounding words that it really made me feel sorry
for the little Hollanders who are to read them.
Good-bye again, in the touching words of our Dutch translator with whom
I’m sure you’ll heartily agree: Toch ben ik er mijn landgenooten dank
baar voor, die mijn arbeid steeds zoo welwillend outvangen en wier
genegenheid ik voortdurend hoop te verdienen.
Yours affectionately, The Author.