Kitabı oxu: «Rollo in Holland»

Chapter I.
Preparations

Holland is one of the most remarkable countries on the globe. The peculiarities which make it remarkable arise from the fact that it is almost perfectly level throughout, and it lies so low. A very large portion of it, in fact, lies below the level of the sea, the waters being kept out, as every body knows, by immense dikes that have stood for ages.

These dikes are so immense, and they are so concealed by the houses, and trees, and mills, and even villages that cover and disguise them, that when the traveller first sees them he can hardly believe that they are dikes. Some of them are several hundred feet wide, and have a good broad public road upon the top, with a canal perhaps by the side of it, and avenues of trees, and road-side inns, and immense wind mills on the other hand. When riding or walking along upon such a dike on one side, down a long slope, they have a glimpse of water between the trees. On the other, at an equal distance you see a green expanse of country, with gardens, orchards, fields of corn and grain, and scattered farm houses extending far and wide. At first you do not perceive that this beautiful country that you see spreading in every direction on one side of the road is below the level of the water that you see on the other side; but on a careful comparison you find that it is so. When the tide is high the difference is very great, and were it not for the dikes the people would be inundated.

Indeed, the dikes alone would not prevent the country from being inundated; for it is not possible to make them perfectly tight, and even if it were so, the soil beneath them is more or less pervious to water, and thus the water of the sea and of the rivers would slowly press its way through the lower strata, and oozing up into the land beyond, would soon make it all a swamp.

Then, besides the interpercolation from the soil, there is the rain. In upland countries, the surplus water that falls in rain flows off in brooks and rivers to the sea; but in land that is below the level of the sea, there can be no natural flow of either brooks or rivers. The rain water, therefore, that falls on this low land would remain there stagnant, except the comparatively small portion of it that would be evaporated by the sun and wind.

Thus you see, that if the people of Holland were to rely on the dikes alone to keep the land dry, the country would become in a very short time one immense morass.

To prevent this result it is necessary to adopt some plan to raise the water, as fast as it accumulates in the low grounds, and convey it away. This is done by pumps and other such hydraulic engines, and these are worked in general by wind mills.

They might be worked by steam engines; but steam engines are much more expensive than wind mills. It not only costs much more to make them, but the expense of working them from day to day is very great, on account of the fuel which they require. The necessary attendance on a steam engine, too, is very expensive. There must be engineers, with high pay, to watch the engine and to keep it always in order, and firemen to feed the fires, and ashmen to carry away the ashes and cinders. Whereas a wind mill takes care of itself.

The wind makes the wind mills go, and the wind costs nothing. It is true, that the head of the mill must be changed from time to time, so as to present the sails always in proper direction to the wind. But even this is done by the wind itself. There is a contrivance by which the mill is made to turn itself so as to face always in the right direction towards the wind; and not only so, but the mill is sometimes so constructed that if the wind blows too hard, it takes in a part of the sails by its own spontaneous action, and thus diminishes the strain which might otherwise be injurious to the machinery.

Now, since the advantages of wind mills are so great over steam engines, in respect especially to cheapness, perhaps you will ask why steam is employed at all to turn machinery, instead of always using the wind. The reason is, because the wind is so unsteady. Some days a wind mill will work, and some days it will lie still; and thus in regard to the time when it will do what is required of it, no reliance can be placed upon it. This is of very little consequence in the work of pumping up water from the sunken country in Holland; for, if for several days the mills should not do their work, no great harm would come of it, since the amount of water which would accumulate in that time would not do any harm. The ground might become more wet, and the canals and reservoirs get full,—just as brooks and rivers do on any upland country after a long rain. But then, after the calm was over and the wind began to blow again, the mills would all go industriously to work, and the surplus water would soon be pumped up, and discharged over the dikes into the sea again.

Thus the irregularity in the action of the wind mills in doing such work as this, is of comparatively little consequence.

But in the case of some other kinds of work,—as for example the driving of a cotton mill, or any other great manufactory in which a large number of persons are employed,—it would be of the greatest possible consequence; for when a calm time came, and the wind mill would not work, all the hands would be thrown out of employ. They might sometimes remain idle thus a number of days at a time, at a great expense to their employers, or else at a great loss to themselves. Sometimes, for example, there might be a fine breeze in the morning, and all the hands would go to the mill and begin their work. In an hour the breeze might entirely die away, and the spinners and weavers would all find their jennies and looms going slower and slower, and finally stopping altogether. And then, perhaps, two hours afterwards, when they had all given up the day's work and gone away to their respective homes, the breeze would spring up again, and the wind mill would go to work more industriously than ever.

This would not answer at all for a cotton mill, but it does very well for pumping up water from a great reservoir into which drains and canals discharge themselves to keep a country dry.

And this reminds me of one great advantage which the people of Holland enjoy on account of the low and level condition of their country; and that is, it is extremely easy to make canals there. There are not only no mountains or rocks in the way to impede the digging of them, but, what is perhaps a still more important advantage, there is no difficulty in filling them with water. In other countries, when a canal is to be made, the very first question is, How is it to be filled? For this purpose the engineer explores the whole country through which the canal is to pass, to find rivers and streams that he can turn into it, when the bed of it shall have been excavated; and sometimes he has to bring these supplies of water for a great distance in artificial channels, which often cross valleys by means of great aqueducts built up to hold them. Sometimes a brook is in this way brought across a river,—the river itself not being high enough to feed the canal.

The people of Holland have no such difficulties as these to encounter in their canals. The whole country being so nearly on a level with the sea, they have nothing to do, when they wish for a canal, but to extend it in some part to the sea shore, and then open a sluice way and let the water in.

It is true that sometimes they have to provide means to prevent the ingress of too much water; but this is very easily done.

It is thus so easy to make canals in Holland, that the people have been making them for hundreds of years, until now almost the whole country is intersected every where with canals, as other countries are with roads. Almost all the traffic, and, until lately, almost all the travel of the country, has been upon the canals. There are private canals, too, as well as public. A farmer brings home his hay and grain from his fields by water, and when he buys a new piece of land he makes a canal to it, as a Vermont farmer would make a road to a new pasture or wood lot that he had been buying.

Rollo wished very much to see all these things—but there was one question which it puzzled him very much to decide, and that was whether he would rather go to Holland in the summer or in the winter.

"I am not certain," said he to his mother one day, "whether it would not be better for me to go in the winter."

"It is very cold there in the winter," said his mother; "so I am told."

"That is the very thing," said Rollo. "They have such excellent skating on the canals. I want to see the boats go on the canals, and I want to see the skating, and I don't know which I want to see most."

"Yes," said his mother, "I recollect to have often seen pictures of skating on the Dutch canals."

"And I read, when I was a boy," continued Rollo, "that the women skate to market in Holland."

Rollo here observed that his mother was endeavoring to suppress a smile. She seemed to try very hard, but she could not succeed in keeping perfectly sober.

"What are you laughing at, mother?" asked Rollo.

Here Mrs. Holiday could no longer restrain herself, but laughed outright.

"Is it about the Dutch women skating to market?" asked Rollo.

"I think they must look quite funny, at any rate," said Mrs. Holiday.

What Mrs. Holiday was really laughing at was to hear Rollo talk about "when he was a boy." But the fact was, that Rollo had now travelled about so much, and taken care of himself in so many exigencies, that he began to feel quite like a man. And indeed I do not think it at all surprising that he felt so.

"Which would you do, mother," said Rollo, "if you were I? Would you rather go in the summer or in the winter?"

"I would ask uncle George," said Mrs. Holiday.

So Rollo went to find his uncle George.

Rollo was at this time at Morley's Hotel, in London, and he expected to find his uncle George in what is called the coffee room. The coffee room in Morley's Hotel is a very pleasant place. It fronts on one side upon a very busy and brilliant street, and on another upon a large open square, adorned with monuments and fountains. On the side towards the square is a bay window, and near this bay window were two or three small tables, with gentlemen sitting at them, engaged in writing. There were other tables along the sides of the room and at the other windows, where gentlemen were taking breakfast. Mr. George was at one of the tables near the bay window, and was busy writing.

Rollo went to the place, and standing by Mr. George's side, he said in an under tone,– "Uncle George."

Every body speaks in an under tone in an English coffee room. They do this in order not to interrupt the conversation, or the reading, or the writing of other gentlemen that may be in the room.

"Wait a moment," said Mr. George, "till I finish this letter."

So Rollo turned to the bay window and looked out, in order to amuse himself with what he might observe in the street, till his uncle George should be ready to talk with him.

He saw the fountains in the square, and a great many children playing about the basins. He saw a poor boy at a crossing brushing the pavement industriously with an old broom, and then holding out his hand to the people passing by, in hopes that some of them would give him a halfpenny. He saw a policeman walking slowly up and down on the sidewalk, wearing a glazed hat, and a uniform of blue broadcloth, with his letter and number embroidered on the collar. He saw an elegant carriage drive by, with a postilion riding upon one of the horses, and two footmen in very splendid liveries behind. There was a lady in the carriage, but she appeared old, and though she was splendidly dressed, her face was very plain.

"I wonder," said Rollo to himself, "how much she would give of her riches and finery if she could be as young and as pretty as my cousin Lucy."

"Now, Rollo," said Mr. George, interrupting Rollo's reflections, "what is the question?"

"Why, I want to know," said Rollo, "whether you think we had better go to Holland in the winter or in the summer."

"Is it left to you to decide?" asked Mr. George.

"Why, no," said Rollo, "not exactly. But mother asked me to consider which I thought was best, and so I want to know your opinion."

"Very well," said Mr. George, "go on and argue the case. After I have heard it argued I will decide."

Rollo then proceeded to explain to his uncle the advantages, respectively, of going in the summer and in the winter. After hearing him, Mr. George thought it would be decidedly better to go in the summer.

"You see," said he, "that the only advantage of going in the winter is to see the skating. That is very important, I know. I should like to see the Dutch women skating to market myself, very much. But then, in the winter you could see very little of the canals, and the wind mills, and all the other hydraulic operations of the country. Every thing would be frozen up solid."

"Father says that he can't go now very well," continued Rollo, "but that I may go with you if you would like to go."

Mr. George was just in the act of sealing his letter as Rollo spoke these words; but he paused in the operation, holding the stick of sealing wax in one hand and the letter in the other, as if he was reflecting on what Rollo had said.

"If we only had some one else to go with us," said Mr. George.

"Should not we two be enough?" asked Rollo.

"Why, you see," said Mr. George, "when we get into Holland we shall not understand one word of the language."

"What language do they speak?" asked Rollo.

"Dutch," said Mr. George, "and I do not know any Dutch."

"Not a word?" asked Rollo.

"No," said Mr. George, "not a word. Ah, yes! I know one word. I know that dampschiff means steamboat. Damp, I suppose, means steam."

Then Rollo laughed outright. Dampskiff, he said, was the funniest name for steamboat that he ever heard.

"Now, when we don't know a word of the language," added Mr. George, "we cannot have any communication with the people of the country, but shall be confined entirely to each other. Now, do you think that you could get along with having nobody but me to talk to you for a whole fortnight?"

"Yes, indeed!" said Rollo. "But then, uncle George," he continued, "how are you going to get along at the hotels without knowing how to speak to the people at all?"

"By signs and gestures," said Mr. George, laughing. "Could not you make a sign for something to eat?"

"O, yes," said Rollo; and he immediately began to make believe eat, moving his hands as if he had a knife and fork in them.

"And what sign would you make for going to bed?" asked Mr. George.

Here Rollo laid his head down to one side, and placed his hand under it, as if it were a pillow, and then shut his eyes.

"That is the sign for going to bed," said Rollo. "A deaf and dumb boy taught it to me."

"I wish he had taught you some more signs," said Mr. George. "Or I wish we had a deaf and dumb boy here to go with us. Deaf and dumb people can get along excellently well where they do not understand the language, because they know how to make so many signs."

"O, we can make up the signs as we go along," said Rollo.

"Yes," said Mr. George. "I don't think that we shall have any great difficulty about that. But then it would be pleasanter to go in a little larger party. Two people are apt to get tired of each other, when there is nobody else that they can speak a single word to for a whole fortnight. I don't think that I should get tired of you. What I am afraid of is, that you would get tired of me."

There was a lurking smile on Mr. George's face as he said this.

"O, uncle George!" said Rollo, "that is only your politeness. But then if you really think that we ought to have some more company, perhaps the Parkmans are going to Holland, and we might go with them."

"I would not make a journey with the Parkmans," said Mr. George, "if they would pay all my expenses, and give me five sovereigns a day."

"Why, uncle George!" exclaimed Rollo; "I thought you liked Mr. Parkman very much."

"So I do," said Mr. George. "It is his wife that I would not go with."

"O, uncle George!" exclaimed Rollo again.

Rollo was very much surprised at hearing this declaration; and it was very natural that he should be surprised, for Mrs. Parkman was a young and beautiful lady, and she was very kindhearted and very amiable in her disposition. Mr. Parkman, too, was very young. He had been one of Mr. George's college classmates. He had been married only a short time before he left America, and he was now making his bridal tour.

Mr. George thought that Mrs. Parkman was very beautiful and very intelligent, but he considered her a very uncomfortable travelling companion. I think he judged her somewhat too harshly. But this was one of Mr. George's faults. He did not like the ladies very much, and the faults which he observed in them, from time to time, he was prone to condemn much too harshly.

Chapter II.
A Bad Travelling Companion

The reason why Mr. George did not like his friend Mr. Parkman's young wife was not because of any want of natural attractiveness in her person, or of amiableness in her disposition,—for she was beautiful, accomplished, and kindhearted. But for all this, from a want of consideration not uncommon among young ladies who are not much experienced in the world, she was a very uncomfortable travelling companion.

It is the duty of a gentleman who has a lady under his charge, in making a journey, to consult her wishes, and to conform to them so far as it is possible, in determining where to go, and in making all the general arrangements of the journey. But when these points are decided upon, every thing in respect to the practical carrying into effect of the plans thus formed should be left to the gentleman, as the executive officer of the party; just as in respect to affairs relating to housekeeping, or any thing else relating to a lady's department, the lady should be left free to act according to her own judgment and taste in arranging details, while in the general plans she conforms to the wishes of her husband. For a lady, when travelling, to be continually making suggestions and proposals about the baggage or the conveyances, and expressing dissatisfaction, or wish for changes in this, that, or the other, is as much a violation of propriety as it would be for the gentleman to go into the kitchen, and there propose petty changes in respect to the mode of cooking the dinner—or to stand by his wife at her work table, and wish to have her thread changed from this place to that—or to have some different stitch to be used in making a seam. A lady very naturally feels disturbed if she finds that her husband does not have confidence enough in her to trust her with such details.

"I will make or mend for you whatever you may desire," she might say, "and I will get for your dinner any thing that you ask for; but in the way of doing it you ought to leave every thing to my direction. It is better to let me have my own way, even if your way is better than mine. For in matters of direction there ought always to be only one head, even if it is not a very good one."

And in the same manner a gentleman might say when travelling with a lady,—

"I will arrange the journey to suit your wishes as far as is practicable, and will go at such times and by such conveyances as you may desire. I will also, at all the places where we stop, take you to visit such objects of interest and curiosity as you wish to see. But then when it comes to the details of the arrangements to be made,—the orders to servants and commissioners, the determination of the times for setting out, and the bargains to be made with coachmen and innkeepers,—it is best to leave all those things to me; for it always makes confusion to have two persons give directions at the same time."

To say this would be right in both cases,—there must always be one to command. A great many families are kept in continual confusion by there being two or more ladies who consider themselves more or less at the head of it—as, for instance, a wife and a sister, or two sisters and a mother. Napoleon used to say that one bad general was better than two good ones; so important is it in war to have unity of command. It is not much less important in social life.

Mrs. Parkman did not understand this principle. Mr. George had seen an example of her mode of management a day or two before, in taking a walk with her and her husband in London. They were going to see the tunnel under the Thames, which was three or four miles down the river from Morley's Hotel, where they were all lodging.

"Which way would you like to go?" asked Mr. Parkman.

"Is there more than one way?" asked his wife.

"Yes," said Mr. Parkman, "we can take a Hansom cab, and drive down through the streets, or we can walk down to the river side, and there take a boat. The boats are a great deal the cheapest, and the most amusing; but the cab will be the most easy and comfortable, and the most genteel. We shall have to walk nearly half a mile before we get to the landing of the boats."

"Is there much difference in the price?" asked Mrs. Parkman.

"Not enough to be of any consequence," replied her husband. "It will make a difference of about one and a half crown; for by the boats it would be only two or three pence, while by the cab it will be as many shillings. But that is of no consequence. We will go whichever way you think you would enjoy the most."

"You may decide for me," said Mrs. Parkman. "I'll leave it entirely to you. It makes no difference to me."

"Then, on the whole, I think we will try the boat," said Mr. Parkman; "it will be so much more amusing, and we shall see so much more of London life. Besides, we shall often read and hear about the steamers on the Thames when we return to America, and it will be well for us to have made one voyage in them. And, Mr. George, will you go with us?"

"Yes," said Mr. George.

So they all left the hotel together, and commenced their walk towards the bridge where the nearest landing stage for the Thames boats lay.

They had not gone but a very short distance before Mrs. Parkman began to hang rather heavily upon her husband's arm, and asked him whether it was much farther that they would have to walk.

"O, yes," said Mr. Parkman. "I told you that we should have to walk about half a mile."

"Then we shall get all tired out," said his wife, "and we want our strength for walking through the tunnel. It does not seem to be worth while to take all this trouble just to save half a crown."

Mr. Parkman, though he had only been married a little more than a month, felt something like a sense of indignation rising in his breast, that his wife should attribute to him such a motive for choosing the river, after what he had said on the subject. But he suppressed the feeling, and only replied quietly,—

"O, let us take a cab then, by all means. I hope you don't suppose that I was going to take you by the boat to save any money."

"I thought you said that you would save half a crown," rejoined his wife.

"Yes," said Mr. Parkman, "I did, it is true."

Mr. Parkman was too proud to defend himself from such an imputation, supported by such reasoning as this; so he only said, "We will go by a cab. We will take a cab at the next stand."

Mr. George instantly perceived that by this change in the plan, he was made one too many for the party, since only two can ride conveniently in a Hansom cab.¹ So he said at once, that he would adhere to the original plan, and go by water.

"But, first," said he, "I will go with you to the stand, and see you safe in a cab."

So they turned into another street, and presently they came to a stand. There was a long row of cabs there, of various kinds, all waiting to be employed. Among them were several Hansoms.

Mr. Parkman looked along the line to select one that had a good horse. The distance was considerable that they had to go, and besides Mr. Parkman knew that his wife liked always to go fast. So when he had selected the best looking horse, he made a signal to the driver. The driver immediately left the stand, and drove over to the sidewalk where Mr. Parkman and his party were waiting.

Mr. Parkman immediately opened the door of the cab to allow his wife to go in; but she, instead of entering, began to look scrutinizingly into it, and hung back.

"Is this a nice cab?" said she. "It seems to me that I have seen nicer cabs than this.

"Let us look," she added, "and see if there is not a better one somewhere along the line."

The cabman, looking down from his exalted seat behind the vehicle, said that there was not a nicer cab than his in London.

"O, of course," said Mrs. Parkman. "They always say that. But I can find a nicer one, I'm sure, somewhere in the line."

So saying she began to move on. Mr. Parkman gave the cabman a silver sixpence—which is equal to a New York shilling—to compensate him for having been called off from his station, and then followed his wife across the street to the side where the cabs were standing. Mrs. Parkman led the way all down the line, examining each hack as she passed it; but she did not find any one that looked as well as the first.

"After all," said she, "we might as well go back and take the first one." So she turned and began to retrace her steps—the two gentlemen accompanying her. But when they got back they found that the one which Mr. Parkman had first selected was gone. It had been taken by another customer.

Mr. George was now entirely out of patience; but he controlled himself sufficiently to suppress all outward manifestation of it, only saying that he believed he would not wait any longer.

"I will go down to the river," said he, "and take a boat, and when you get a carriage you can go by land. I will wait for you at the entrance to the tunnel."

So he went away; and as soon as he turned the corner of the street he snapped his fingers and nodded his head with the air of a man who has just made a very lucky escape.

"I thank my stars," said he to himself, "that I have not got such a lady as that to take care of. Handsome as she is, I would not have her for a travelling companion on any account whatever."

It was from having witnessed several such exhibitions of character as this that Mr. George had expressed himself so strongly to Rollo on the subject of joining Mr. Parkman and his wife in making the tour of Holland.

But notwithstanding Mr. George's determination that he would not travel in company with such a lady, it seemed to be decreed that he should do so, for he left London about a week after this to go to Holland with Rollo alone; and though he postponed setting out for several days, so as to allow Mr. and Mrs. Parkman time to get well under way before them, he happened to fall in with them several times in the course of the journey. The first time that he met with them was in crossing the Straits of Dover.

There are several ways by which a person may go to Holland from London. The cheapest is to take a steamer, by which means you go down the Thames, and thence pass directly across the German Ocean to the coast of Holland. But that makes quite a little voyage by sea, during which almost all persons are subject to a very disagreeable kind of sickness, on account of the small size of the steamers, and the short tossing motion of the sea that almost always prevails in the waters that lie around Great Britain.

So Mr. George and Rollo, who neither of them liked to be seasick, determined to go another way. They concluded to go down by railway to Dover, and then to go to Calais across the strait, where the passage is the shortest. Mr. and Mrs. Parkman had set off several days before them, and Mr. George supposed that by this time they were far on their way towards Holland. But they had been delayed by Mrs. Parkman's desire to go to Brighton, which is a great watering place on the coast, not far from Dover. There Mr. and Mrs. Parkman had spent several days, and it so happened that in going from Brighton to Dover they met, at the junction, the train that was bringing Mr. George and Rollo down from London; and thus, though both parties were unconscious of the fact, they were travelling along towards Dover, after leaving the junction, in the same train, and when they stepped out of the carriages, upon the Dover platform, there they were all together.

Mr. Parkman and Mr. George were very glad to see each other; and while they were shaking hands with each other, and making mutual explanations, Mrs. Parkman went to the door of the station to see what sort of a place Dover was.

She saw some long piers extending out into the water, and a great many ships and steamers lying near them. The town lay along the shore, surrounding an inner harbor enclosed by the walls of the piers. Behind the town were high cliffs, and an elevated plain above, on which a great number of tents were pitched. It was the encampment of an army. A little way along the shore a vast promontory was seen, crowned by an ancient and venerable looking castle, and terminated by a range of lofty and perpendicular cliffs of chalk towards the sea.

"What a romantic place!" said Mrs. Parkman to herself. "It is just such a place as I like. I'll make William stay here to-day."

Just then she heard her husband's voice calling to her.

"Louise!"

She turned and saw her husband beckoning to her. He was standing with Mr. George and Rollo near the luggage van, as they call it in England, while the railway porters were taking out the luggage.

Mrs. Parkman walked towards the place.

"They say, Louise," said Mr. Parkman, "that it is time for us to go on board the boat. She is going to sail immediately."

"Ah! but, William," said Mrs. Parkman, "let us stay here a little while. Dover is such a romantic looking place."

"Very well," said Mr. Parkman, "we will stay if you like. Are you going to stay, Mr. George?"