_HUMOUR SERIES_ EDITED BY W. H. DIRCKS THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND ALREADY ISSUED _FRENCH HUMOUR_ _GERMAN HUMOUR_ _ITALIAN HUMOUR_ _AMERICAN HUMOUR_ [Illustration: FANCYâS FAIRY TALE. [_See page 119._ ] THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND [Illustration] TRANSLATED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION, BY A. WERNER. ILLUSTRATIONS BY DUDLEY HARDY AND OTHERS LONDON 1893 WALTER SCOTT LTD CONTENTS. [Illustration] PAGE INTRODUCTION ix THE KINGâS DREAMâ_Frederick Van Eeden_ 1 THE DOMINIEâ_C. K. Elout_ 6 MY HEROâ_Conrad van der Liede_ 35 NEWSPAPER HUMOUR 52 A RASCALLY VALETâ_Multatuli_ 55 DROOGSTOPPEL INTRODUCES HIMSELFâ_Multatuli_ 77 DROOGSTOPPEL PAYS A CHARITABLE VISITâ_Multatuli_ 83 APHORISMSâ_Multatuli_ 90 OF SELF-DEPRECIATIONâ_Multatuli_ 93 OF EDUCATION, WITH PRACTICAL ILLUSTRATIONSâ_Multatuli_ 94 GOING INTO BUSINESSâ_Multatuli_ 112 TWO PARABLESâ_Multatuli_ 113 THERSITES AND PLATOâ_Multatuli_ 115 EGOTISMâ_Multatuli_ 115 THE STORY OF CHRESOSâ_Multatuli_ 116 THE FAIRY TALE THAT FANCY TOLD WOUTERâ_Multatuli_ 119 HALF-AN-HOUR AT THE HAIR-DRESSERâSâ_Anon._ 125 IN THE LITTLE REPUBLICâ_L. H. J. Lamberts-Hurrelbrinck_ 139 NEWSPAPER HUMOUR 173 FICTION AT SEAâ_A. Werumeus Buning_ 174 NEWSPAPER HUMOUR 178 FARMER GERRITâS VISIT TO AMSTERDAMâ_J. J. Cremer_ 184 NO SWORDââ_Humoristisch Album_â 197 A STUDENTâS LODGINGS SIXTY YEARS SINCEâ_J. Van Lennep_ 200 A COLONIAL PRIZE-GIVINGâ_Annie Foore_ 205 HOW MATHIS KNOUPS TURNED âLIBERALâ AND THEN âCATHOLICâ AGAINâ_Emile Seipgens_ 212 NEWSPAPER HUMOUR 232 THE CANDIDATEâ_T. H. Hooijer_ 252 EPIGRAMS 257 THE VILLAGE ON THE FRONTIERâ_Van Lennep_ 261 PROVERBS 290 A DUTCH PODSNAPâ_Gerard Keller_ 293 ROUGH DRAFT OF A NEW SET OF REGULATIONSâ_Uilenspiegel_ 346 THE STORY OF A BOUQUETâ_Uilenspiegel_ 347 UNBIDDEN GUESTSâ_Annie Foore_ 351 BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF WRITERS 393 INTRODUCTION. There appears to be an idea abroad to the effect that the âHumour of Hollandâ could be most satisfactorily dealt with in a chapter resembling the famous one âOf Snakes in Ireland.â As the average English reader, in the most favourable instances, knows little more of Dutch literature than a name or two (Rembrandt has introduced us to âthe poet Vondel,â and if Southey were not so little read in these days Bilderdijk and Cats would not be so unfamiliar), the subject offers a free field to the constructive imagination. Yet even so, one would think it must be obvious that the nation which has produced a Teniers, a Jan Steen, andâin some of his moodsâa Rembrandt, could not be entirely destitute of humour. The estimate of its quality may be a question of taste; butâthough many people practically do adopt this form of logicâwe cannot make the fact of our not finding it to our liking a ground for denying its existence. Of course, before determining what the humour of a nation is like, we need to know what is that nationâs intellectual bent as a whole, and what forces have been at work to determine its character. On this point we may quote a paragraph or two from a Dutch writer, J. H. Hooijer, whom we shall meet again in the course of these pages. He is describing a village in North Holland, in the heart of the fat meadow-lands, famous for the production of Dutch cheeses. âThe same village which you find so depressing this November day,âso damp, so clammy, so dripping with water,âmakes a very different impression when Spring, with full hands, has showered her blossom-snow over the orchards, or in the autumn, when the trees are hanging full of golden pears or rosy apples. Greener meadow-land is nowhere on earth, unless it be in the Emerald Isle itself. The rich green pastures have velvety lights in the sunshine, and the splendid cattleâtheir dappled skins smooth and shining as silkâshow out to advantage against itâcolour on colour. At such times there is a glow of colour in the whole landscape, which, strange as it may sound, reminds one of the South,âa glow one might almost think was stolen from the palettes of the Old Masters. Every breath you draw is perfumed with new milk and flowers, mingled with the salt smell of the sea. There is a fulness of outward lifeâa bubbling up and overflowing of vital juices,âfor which they had an eye and a heart, those great old realists. The man who despises a rich clover pasture, speckled here and there with white-fleeced sheep; who cannot spare a look for the magnificent horned cattle that stand staring at you, with dreamy, half-sad gaze, over the fence, while Geertjeâs black eyes flash at you from behind the milking-pail,âwell, he need not come to North Holland. Intellects of this sort, exclusively devoted to the contemplation of the sublime, will find everything ugly in these parts. To such an one our Old Masters have nothing to say; for him, Paul Potterâs art is a mere waste of time, and many a racy bit of Vondel trivial nonsense. Happily the cheery sun is of another mind, and his smile falls well-pleased on the endless emerald plain. He nurses it, feeds it, warms it,âhe sweetens the blades of grass for the palate of the pampered cow. And sometimes, just before setting, he draws along the horizon, with purple finger, broad streaks of crimson fire, and then the dykes flame out like ruby bands winding over the green velvet robe of the earth, and you wish for the power of wielding the brush, so as to throw on canvas what one might almost call these brutal effects of colour.â Here we have a fertile country, with the means of existence in plenty, but not one where it is easy to live without hard work. These rich meadow-lands have been wrung from the sea by the painful toil of centuries, and are only held by the tenure of constant vigilance. But the struggle for existence is not hard enough to exhaust the vital energies, and produce a stunted careworn race. There is abundance of rough but wholesome food, such as results in strong limbs and clear skins; there is leisure for dancing and playârough horse-play though it may beâwhen work is done; that there is a recognised place in life for mere beauty and luxury, is shown in the gold head-ornaments of the women. There are no mountains to suggest the sense of remoteness and mystery; and the grey North Sea, with its sands and mud-flats, is rather a fact to be accepted, a foe to be struggled with, in a grim matter-of-course way from day to day, than the weird terror that the ocean is to more imaginative peoples. But within the narrow and well-ordered bounds of farm and homestead, there is a richness of colour to fire the painterâs eye; the skies and sunsets are the glorious ones that flame over fen and marshland, and winter brings the joy of glittering ice and ringing skates. Life is and has been less bare and hard than of old in Scotland; but on the whole, the history of the two nations is somewhat similar, and they have many points of character in common. Both learned thrift, endurance, and foresight in a hard school; both early acquired the inconvenient habit of thinking for themselves and dispensing with any mental spectacles save those of their own choosing; and both displayed a bull-dog tenacity in holding by their hardly won rights. But after the Reformation a marked difference becomes evident. Scotland only emerged from the troubles of that epoch to encounter the religious persecution of the Stuarts. The seventeenth century was fruitful of heroism; it tried the national character as by fire, and developed its sterner and deeper elements; it was not unfavourable even to tenderness, of a rugged and undemonstrative character, but the lighter side of life was left, for the time being, entirely in abeyance. In the quieter time which succeeded the Union, reaction soon became stagnation. The fiery earnestness,âcall it fanaticism, if you like,âwhich had been so tremendous a force in action and endurance, now became a sour harsh bigotry, lying like a leaden weight on menâs lives. It is one thing to be in such deadly earnest over an urgent crisis, that you have no time or inclination to admire a picture or laugh at a joke; it is another to forbid such enjoyment to other people, because it is inconsistent with the attitude of mind proper to the crisis that is over and past. We all have _les dÃ©fauts de nos qualitÃ©s_; and the mistakes of reformers include a tendency to regard the conclusions at which they have arrived as final, and an imperfect estimate of the relative value of means and endsâin other words, the inability to see when a truth (that is to say, any particular statement of a truth) has done its work. This general state of flatness and dulness could only be ended by a volcanic outburst,âand such a one came in with Burns. To return to Holland. The shaking off of the Spanish yoke was followed by a period of peace and prosperity. Dutch ships had for some time past been bringing home the wealth of the Indies. Dutch admirals were finding their way into unknown seas. Colonies sprang up in the Spice Islands, and the money gained by trade turned the swamps reclaimed from the sea into flower-gardens, or covered them with stately buildings. Wealthy burghers, even of the strictest Calvinist persuasion, did not appear to find their Protestant principles an obstacle to the encouragement of painters and poets. Roemer Visscher and his daughters, though members of the defeated and unpopular church, kept open house at Amsterdam for all who loved art and letters, and assembled round them the best wits of the time. Gerbrand Bredero, painter and poet both, belonged to a respectable burgher family, whoâthough grieved by the excesses of his riotous youth, and sorely troubled by his contemplated marriage with Alida Jansdoter, the pretty but characterless widow who kept the Toren van Monnickendam tavernâdo not appear to have mourned over his choice of a vocation, or regarded his plays as anything to disapprove of. Joost van den Vondel, the tragic poet (in whose genius some have found an excuse for belittling that of our own Milton), was a deeply religious man; and though he seems to have suffered from the aspersions of the religious, it was not so much on account of his poems, as because he was a Baptist, and they Reformed Calvinists. No doubt there _was_ religious bigotry in Holland, but there were also elements of healthy life which kept it in check. And there was a time when thought became dull and stagnant,âwhen the dead-weight of the commonplace, backed by the double sanction of social and religious orthodoxy, forced all individuality into its own prepared mould,âwhen the Dominie looked with suspicion on every independent expression of opinion, and the âPiousâ kept a watchful eye on the Dominie,âbut that time was not yet. Betje Wolff, who suffered in her youth from Cornelia Slimpslamp and Brother Benjamin,âand never forgot it,âcame in for part of it; but the worst was not till after she and her friend Aagje had been laid to rest side by side. That was the darkness just before the dawn; for surely there never was such a world of dead forms and petty conventions, such a stifling atmosphere of cant and artificiality, as that in which Multatuli spent his childhood. The humour of the Netherlands has, in common with that of Scotland, a certain canniness and practical shrewdness, characteristic of men and nations who have bought their experience at first hand and a heavy price. But, whether for want of that touch of Celtic fire which in Scotland has leavened the solid Teuton into a thing quite unique in the world, or what else, there is a notable lack of that dryness and tersenessâthat expressing more than the whole by means of less than the halfâwhich comes out in the best Scotch anecdotes and sayings. It would be an insult to a listener of average intelligence, to explain, for example, âItâs a puir shaw for Kirkintilloch.â We are not sure thatâsupposing that the exact equivalent to this joke existed in Dutchâthe Netherlander would feel the insult deeply; we rather think he would enjoy the story the better for a half page or so of comments in addition to the full explanation. Of this nature are many jocular poems by the revered Father Cats, and the âZinne-poppenâ of Roemer Visscher and his daughter Anna. The Netherlander likes his fun pretty obvious, and not too concentrated. And the main characteristic of the said fun is its breadth,âor rather what the Germans call _Breite_, for the English word by no means conveys exactly the same idea. âLong-windednessâ alone does not express it; Coleridgeâs ânimiety or too-muchnessâ (which he calls a characteristic fault in the German literary temperament) is much nearer the mark. It is long-windedness combined with infinite multiplicity of detail,âa gossipy, good-humoured, complacent triviality, which is the essence of boredom. Vossâs âLuiseâ (which poem we doubt whether any British person now living has read through) is a shining example of the quality. Nothing is left to the readerâs imaginationâeverything, and the reason for everything, is described and explained at full length, till the best ideas are swamped in floods of formless verbiage. In Holland, this kind of writing flourished most extensively in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and Father Cats, already referred to, exhibits it in an excessive degree. He also shows an overpowering desire to be improving,âanother point common to the Scot and the Batavian,âand the two things together made him, for two centuries, out and out the most popular writer in Holland. As to âbroadâ farce, in the other sense of the word, Dutch literature possesses a good deal of it, of such extreme latitude, indeed, as to be for the most part entirely unavailable for this volume. Besides, it is not amusing. The _SotternieÃ«n_, or farces, of the Middle Ages, were of an extremely rough and ready type, to say no more, though Dr Jan Ten Brink accords them the praise of âaccurate observation of Flemish low life, and a real comic gift.â They mostly turn on matrimonial difficulties, in which a foolish husband gets the worst of it. More or less of the same kind, though of a somewhat higher type, were the farces (_Kluchten_) of what we may call the Dutch Renaissance (c. 1550â1650). They mostly turn on rough or even disgusting practical jokes; they are written in clumsy, lumbering verse, which has the effect of encouraging and intensifying the authorâs natural diffuseness; in short, whatever laugh-provoking power they may once have had, most of them are now quite intolerably dull. The best known are those of Coster, Vos, Jan Starter, Hooft, Huygens (who made one excursion in this directionâ_Trijntje Cornelis_), and, above all, Gerbrand Bredero, whose genius had not yet reached its highest point, when his short and stormy life came to an end. GERBRAND ADRIAENSZEN BREDERO was born at Amsterdam in 1585. His father was a wealthy tradesman, at first a shoemaker, and afterwards farmer of the taxes on wines and spirits. Adriaen Bredero was a generous patron of art, and intended his son to become a painter; but the latter, though he studied for a time, and appears to have shown some degree of talent, preferred to devote himself to literature. He became a member of the chamber, _In Liefde Bloeiende_,[1] and soon formed the acquaintance of Spieghel, the didactic poet, and the genial Roemer Visscher, the scholarly author of the âZinne-poppenâ and âBrabbeling.â An unhappy love for Roemerâs younger daughter, Tesselschade, probably wrecked his life, the greater part of which was spent in noisy dissipation, alternating with intervals of deep depression. His work was both lyric and dramatic; his principal plays are the tragicomedies of âRoderick and Alphonsusâ (1611), âGrianeâ (1612), and âThe Dumb Knightâ (1618), to which may be added the unfinished play âHet daghet uyt den Oosten,â the farces of the âCowâ (1612), the âMillerâ and âSymen sonder Soeticheytâ (1613), and the regular comedies of âThe Moorâ (1615), and âThe Spanish Brabanterâ (1618). The last-named, his masterpiece, was intended to satirise (under the name of Jerolimo) the Chevalier Theodor Rodenburgh, his rival in literature and in a second unhappy love affair. From this bitter disappointment Bredero never recovered. He died at the age of thirty-three, after a lingering illness, tended with devoted care by his mother, and comforted by the friendship of the gentle and earnesthearted Vondel, whose religion was of a type to find easier access to the stormy soul than the gloomy Calvinism of Brederoâs relations. For further particulars of the poetâs life the reader is referred to the works of Dr Jan Ten Brink, among others an interesting historical novel (founded on contemporary documents) entitled âDe Brederoâs,â which has appeared in âElsevierâs GeÃ¯llustreerd Maandschriftâ for 1891 and 1892. Brederoâs farces are rough, and even coarseâa defect from which his more elevated work, such as the âSpanish Brabanter,â is not free; but this is a fault common to the comic literature of all countries at that epoch. He was no scholar, and though acquainted with French, did not know Latin, a circumstance for which his writing is probably none the worse. His comedy, âHet Moortjeâ (âThe Little Moorâ), is an adaptation of a French version of Terenceâs âEunuchus,â and far inferior to the âSpanish Brabanter,â which, though not absolutely original (the plot is to a great extent taken from the Spanish novel âLazarillo de Tormesâ), is as much so as most of Shakespeareâs, and full of life and vigour. It is perhaps somewhat verbose, and the irregular kind of ballad-metre in which it is written lends itself to indefinite _longueurs_; but the character-painting is excellent. Indeed, Brederoâs chief merit is the strong human sympathy shown in his broad, vivid pictures of popular life. He gives us the life of the street in Amsterdam as he knew itâthe beggars, the scolding wives, the money-lender, the poor gentleman with his frayed velvet doublet and rapier showing through its worn sheath, the gossiping sexton, the boys playing at marbles. It is evident that Bredero was on the right track, and, had he lived, might have produced even better work than this play,âperhaps founded a new dramatic school, which might have repeated in Holland the triumphs of our Elizabethan writers. Dr Ten Brink compares him in his riotous enjoyment of life and noisy excesses to Greene, Marlowe, and Massinger. It is difficult to extract any single scene from the âSpaansche Brabander,â far and away his best work; and, as, in fact, almost any attempt at translation could reproduce only the faults of the original, it seemed better to avoid courting inevitable failure. English influence made itself felt in Holland during the seventeenth century in more ways than one. Huygens, who repeatedly visited England, and knew Donne, shows traces of the âCarolineâ manner in his poems and epigrams. Intercourse between the two countries was frequent, and the connection, of course, became closer still with their temporary union under one sovereign. During the eighteenth century, Dutch literature appeared to be on the wane. Foreign worksâEnglish and Frenchâwere admired and read, and educated persons took a certain pride in neglecting their native language as a barbarous and uncultivated tongue. It was in a passionate impulse of patriotism that Mevrouw Betje Wolff and Mejuffrouw Aagje Deken determined to enter into competition with the universally popular Richardson, and prove to the reading public of Holland that a Dutch novel, showing Dutch characters amid the everyday surroundings of Amsterdam, Utrecht, or the Hague, might be quite as interesting as any foreign importation. The result was the publication, in 1782, of the âHistory of Mejuffrouw Sara Burgerhart,â which ran into a third edition in 1786. ELIZABETH WOLFF and AGATHA DEKEN were two friends, affectionately spoken of by their compatriots as Betje and Aagje, who lived and wrote together, and collaborated so harmoniously that it is impossible to distinguish their respective shares in the works jointly issued by them. Elizabeth Bekker, born at Flushing, July 24, 1738, is described as âa little delicate woman, with penetrating dark eyes, twinkling with humorous mischief.â Her lively spirit maintained a hard struggle against the harsh old-fashioned Calvinism of her Zeeland home, as represented by her elder brother Laurens. It was probably to escape from this that, at twenty, she married a âdominieâ of fifty-twoâthe Predikant Adriaen Wolff. In the quiet of the country parsonage she lived, happily enough, from 1759 to 1777, devoted to her elderly husband, and with abundant leisure for literature. During this period she wrote chiefly in verse, and published several collections of poems; but, when left a widow in 1777, she invited her friend Agatha Deken to live with her. Agatha, three years younger than her friend, was an orphan, brought up in the Amsterdam âWeeshuis,â who had been living as companion with an invalid lady named Maria Bosch, also given to poetry. The two friends first essayed themselves in prose, by publishing âLetters on Various Subjects,â in 1780, after which they gradually developed the idea of a novel in letters, after the manner of Richardson. âThe History of Mejuffrouw Sara Burgerhart,â in spite of its somewhat repellent epistolary form, remains capital reading to the present day. The book is not so very long-winded, considering the epoch at which it was written; the characters are clearly conceived and sympathetically drawn; and there is a delicate humour which might almost be compared with Jane Austenâs, but has a distinct flavour of its own. The portraiture of Saraâs aunt, Mejuffrouw Hofland, and the designing parasites who make her their preyâCornelia Slimpslamp, and Brother Benjamin, the butcherâs man turned preacherâreminds us of Betje Bekkerâs bitterness against the fanatical precisians (called by themselves âvromen,â or pious, and by others âfijnen,â or subtle) who had darkened her youth. âSara Burgerhart,â published in 1782, was followed by a longer work, âHistorie van den Heer Willem Leevend,â which in some respects surpasses it. In 1788 the friends left Holland, in consequence of political changes, and settled at Trevoux in Burgundy, where they remained till 1795, writing âLetters of Abraham Blankaart,â and their third novel, âCornelia Wildschut.â Betje was robbed of her small property by a rascally man of business; and, at the time of the Terror, narrowly escaped the guillotine, being looked on as an aristocrat by the republicans of Trevoux. They returned to Holland in 1795, settled at the Hague, and set themselves to translating for a bare living. Their last years were spent amid great financial difficulties and privations, borne with their usual cheerfulness, and one cherished wish was granted them at last,âBetje died November 5, 1804, and Aagje only survived her nine days. It is a pity that these books are not of a kind to show to advantage in extracts. To be appreciated, they must be taken in bulk, as the character-drawing, which is their chief attraction, only comes out indirectly, and point by point, in the course of the letters. Which of the two collaborators should be credited with the quiet humourâof the type recognised as peculiarly feminineâwhich flashes through them, is a disputed point, but it is usually attributed to Betje Wolff. Internal evidence, and especially the history of her early life, seem to point to her as having originated the character of Sara herself, the bright, lovable, merry-hearted girl, so willing to submit to loving guidance, but impatient of the gloomy restraint of Aunt Susannaâs house, which called out all that was worst in her nature. Agatha Deken, we are told, was a large, fair person, of calm aspect and portly presenceâsomewhat prosaic and matter-of-factâyet the description does not exclude the possibility of a certain âpawkiness,ââand probably there is no hard and fast distinction to be drawn between the two, as regards the humorous element. And, however that may be, âSara Burgerhartâ is a charming book, and deserves to be much more widely known than it is. Lovers of âEvelinaâ would delight in its old-time quaintness, and even those without an especial _parti-pris_ for the eighteenth century could not fail to appreciate the delicately finished pictures of Dutch life. Some points in this latter suggest the question whether many things which we have been accustomed to consider as purely American manners did not originate in the Dutch ancestry of the New-Yorkers. The comings and goings of the young ladies at the Amsterdam boarding-house, under the friendly (but to contemporary English notions very inadequate) supervision of the Widow Spilgoed, _nÃ©e_ Buigzaam, is one of those. Others suggest themselves to an attentive reader of the book. But this is only in passing. Decidedly, an English version of âSaraâ with a loving and appreciative introduction by a capable hand, would be an addition to the pleasures of life. It is no part of the plan of this brief sketchâwhich aims throughout at being suggestive rather than exhaustiveâto furnish a comprehensive introduction to Dutch literature, or even to that part of it to which these pages are exclusively devoted. There is one point, however, which we must not overlook. This is not the placeâand perhaps, indeed, the time has not fully comeâto discuss the position which Multatuli holds, or ought to hold, in his countryâs literature; but it cannot fail to strike any reader of this volume, that a largeâperhaps disproportionately largeânumber of pages is assigned to the work of a writer cast in as un-Dutch, or even anti-Dutch, a mould as it is possible to imagine. In fact, Multatuli stands as much alone among the Dutch, as Heine does among the Germans; and, by the same token, we might add, he is their only real humorist, in the highest sense. This apartness is not to be accounted for in Douwes Dekkerâs case, by difference of race; but then, he was partly the product of reaction, and there were, after all, strong race-affinities in the deeper parts of his character. He had every quality calculated to jar upon the feelings of the Amsterdam _petits bourgeois_ of his day: he had other ideals than theirs; he would not be content to make money and abstain from shocking the neighbours; he was nervous and imaginative in a stolid and prosaic generationâlavishly extravagant in a prudent, not to say parsimonious, one; but his passionate love of freedom, his intolerance of shams, his resolute refusal to utter the shibboleths of the age or bow before the idols of the market-place, proved him of one blood with William of Orange and Marnix de Sainte-Aldegonde. And, had he been as altogether isolated as he seems at first sight, he could hardly have become the force in national life that he now is. His âMax Havelaarâ was like a volcanic outburst breaking up the crust of convention which had been slowly stiffening over Holland; but it gave voice to a cry which had been stifled in thousands of hearts. He spoke, and the younger generation answered him as one man. To-day, in Holland, Multatuli is a name to conjure withâa synonym for life, thought, progress, revolt against conventionâfor everything that may be called modernity. He was a crude, formless, unmethodical writer. âMax Havelaarâ is one of the most exasperatingly inartistic books ever written, and it must always remain matter for regret that he never seriously took in hand to complete and give artistic unity to the brilliant fragments that form the unfinished history of âWoutertje Pieterse.â But there is life and red blood in everything he wroteâand that counts for far more than dead correctness of form,âthough, of course, the perfect form _enshrining_ the vitality gives it a chance to last longer. There is something in âWouterâ that reminds one curiously of the âStory of an African Farm.â Not that we would infer that the latter was suggested by the formerâit may well be that its author was, at the time, quite unaware of Multatuliâs existence; and the agonies of isolated childhood are the same all the world over. But there are certain points of resemblance which make us think that a similar environmentâthe compound of dead Calvinism, Dutch pseudo-propriety, and crass ignoranceâproduced similar results. Though, perhaps it was natural that poor Wouter, dreaming on the bridge by the saw-mill at Amsterdam, should have less lofty visions than Waldo, dreaming on the open veldt under the stars. Wouter began his career in the story with a crime. He wanted very much to read a book in the circulating library, but he had not the necessary twopence. His mother thought little boys had no use for pocket-money. Besides, circulating libraries did not enter into Juffrouw Pieterseâs calculations from any point of view. But it was so deadly dull at home, where there were no interesting books left unreadâand no one was supposed to want to read at all, except Stoffel, the elder brother, who was a pupil-teacher, and preparing for an examination,âand he did long, with an unspeakable longing, for the âHistory of Glorioso the Brigand.â So he sold his Bible, with the paraphrases at the end, to a book-stall man on the Old Bridge (this particular is never forgotten in subsequent references to the misdemeanour, as though it had been an aggravation thereof), trusting to the fact that the volume was not likely to be inquired after on a week-day, to escape scot-free till Sunday. Which he did; but with Sunday came discovery and swift retribution. But Wouter did not mind that,âhe had had his âGlorioso,â and was willing to pay the price. That was not all, however;âthis piece of juvenile depravity had far-reaching consequences; but what they were will be discovered from the extracts given in the text. There is infinite humour, as well as infinite pathos, in the description of the poor, starved child-soul, to which even a trashy sensational novel could give some sort of outlook into the idealâfor that was what Wouterâs (after all very innocent) glorification of crime practically amounted to. No better proof of the hold which Multatuli has over the hearts of his countrymen could be given than the fact that many of his characters have passed into proverbs. Juffrouw Laps, Dominie Pennewip, the Hallemans,ââwho were so very particularly respectable,ââand others, are constantly to be met with in current literature. And yet, curiously enough, his views are almost entirely negative. He is a preacher of revoltâa revolt often blind, illogical, inconsistent with itself, and which, from our point of view, seems curiously out of dateâso that one is apt to forget he has only been dead six years,âand he is seldom, if ever, a teacher of anything else. It proves how greatly the revolt was needed, and what was the power of that Dagon of convention against which he directed his blows. One word about the drama[2] from which an extract has been given. It was one of his earliest works, being written at Padang (Sumatra) in 1843, when he was little more than a youth; and he himself in later years, was sarcastic enough at the expense of its âlachrymose sentimentâ and emotional idealism. Perhaps it does err by excess in this direction, especially in Holmâs interminable monologues,âperhaps, also, the comic scenes force the note a little, and are not free from the trick of catch-words,âbut the play, as a whole, is a capital one, and was, we believe, very successful on the stage. He wrote another serious drama, in verse, the âVorstenschool,â which has never been acted, but perhaps for political rather than dramatic reasons. It seems a pity that he did not make more sustained efforts in this style of writing, which would have chastened the formlessness above alluded to as marring his work; but he seems to have been too impatient in getting his thoughts on paper to submit to the necessary restraints. It will be noticed that this selection includes specimens from both Dutch and Belgian writers. The fact is that Belgium, from a literary point of view, scarcely exists. The written language is the same for both countries, the differences being mainly local and dialectical. After Brabant and Flanders had ceased to be Spanish provinces, and prior to the Revolution of 1830, the two portions were respectively known as Noord and Zuid Nederland. After 1830, the national language was, for a time, entirely discredited, and Belgium threatened to become a mere imitation of France, if not actually an appendage to that country. Of late years a reaction has set in. A knowledge of Flemish is required by law of all Government officials, except in those districts exclusively inhabited by the Walloons, who are supposed to speak French, though in fact, they discourse in a tongue which no mortal but themselves can understand. There is an increasing number of Flemish papers,âthe comic ones especially doing valiant service on the national side. In 1883 a law was passed rendering the teaching of Flemish (or âNetherlands,â as both Dutch and Belgians prefer to call it) obligatory in all intermediate schools. At Ghent University, moreover, all lectures are now delivered in that language, as well as some of the courses at the Universities of Brussels and Louvain. Straws show which way the wind blows; and, though a trifle, it is a significant one, that the streets of Antwerp are now labelled in Flemish, as well as French, and that public notices, advertisements, &c., when not bi-lingual, are usually Flemish. The time of this linguistic reaction has also been one of revival in the national literature. Maeterlinck, it is true, writes in French; and a small coterie of less-known writers, calling themselves _La Jeune Belgique_, have chosen that language as the vehicle of their inspirations; but these do not represent the main current of the national life. For a long time, Conscience stood almost alone as a Flemish writer, and he was only known to the outer world through the medium of French translations. Now we have, of poets, Pol de Mont, De la Montagne, Hilda Ram, and HÃ©lene Swarth, who, had she written in a more widely known language, would be recognised as one of the worldâs greatest lyrists;âof prose-writers, Stijns, Virginie Loveling, Segers, Smits, Van Cuyck, Anton Moortgat, Emile Seipgens, and many others. Not all of them are available for our present purpose,âbut some, as will be seen, have been selected from. In conclusion, I would express my indebtedness for valuable information kindly given by Mr Frans Van Cuyck, of the Public Library, Antwerp, and author of âTwee Huwelijken,â âSinoren,â and other works. A. WERNER. THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND. _THE KINGâS DREAM._ [Illustration: âI STROLLED THOUGHTFULLY ALONG THE BEACH.â ] _King Bilbonzo_. It is well. We ourself now desire to make an important communication to you. _Palaemon_ (_Prime Minister and Chancellor of the Kingdom_). We are all attention. _King Bilbonzo._ It pleased us to have a very strange dream last night. _Courtiers._ Aha! _King Bilbonzo._ I dreamed, gentlemen, that I was on an island in the midst of the ocean. My royal palace, surrounded by luxuriant gardens, stood in the centre of the island. My whole retinue was assembled there,âthey were all laughing, dancing, and feasting. On all sides, smiling faces, rustling silks, and waves of sweet dance-music. Meanwhile, I strolled thoughtfully along the beach, reflected on the bounties of nature, and picked up shells. _Courtiers._ Ah! _King Bilbonzo._ But suddenly the ground trembled under my feet. I looked up, and perceived that the whole island was moving under me. It heaved, rocked this way and that, rose and fell on the water, and, finally, shot swiftly over the surface of the foaming sea. The beautiful island, my lords and gentlemen, was a living, terrible sea-monster! _Courtiers_ (_in horror_). Ah! _King Bilbonzo._ My courtiers clung to me in terror. My head swam. Suddenly the monster dived, and the sea at once destroyed the palace and gardens. I myself, with a few faithful onesâyou, my lords, among the numberâremained bobbing up and down, holding to an empty cask. But the monster came once more to the surface, lifted a huge dripping mouth out of the water, and swallowed us all. _Courtiers._ B-r-r-r!âmost horrible! _King Bilbonzo._ However, after a short interval of oppressive darkness, it cast us out again uninjuredâand I found myself in my bed! _Courtiers_ (_drawing a long breath of relief_). Eh! _King Bilbonzo._ What is your opinion, my lords? Is this a prophetic vision? _Palaemon._ It is a fact that the prophet Jonah, some time since, had the honour of experiencing something very like what your Majesty has just dreamed. _King Bilbonzo._ Does any of you think himself in a position to explain this dream to me? [_All shake their heads._] _Palaemon._ Sire, I have been told that there is, at this moment, a Spanish magician staying in our capital. Perhaps he might be able to comply with your wish. I have already given orders to have this person searched forâprobably he has already reached the palace.... _King Bilbonzo._ Why! this is exceedingly interesting! Be so good as to bring the man into our presence at once. [_Exit Palaemon._ _Enter_ PALAEMON, _and_ DON TORRIBIO, a _Spanish magician_. _Palaemon._ Here is the man. _King Bilbonzo._ Come nearer, my friend. _Don Torribio._ Who told you that I am your friend? Are you in the thought-reading business too? _Homaris_ (_3^{rd} Minister_). This is an unmannerly customer. _Palaemon._ Do you know you are speaking to the King? _Don Torribio._ Why, yes,âI thought so. I presume no one else would wear such a head-gear. _King Bilbonzo._ Silence, my lords!âthis is evidently an eccentric man. Let him alone. Magicians, fools, and poets have ever been allowed a certain familiarity with princes. _Don Torribio._ You forget to add _fleas_, my prince. _Ministers._ Hush!âshame!âshame! _King Bilbonzo._ Decency! decency! _Don Torribio._ I assure you they are very decent well-behaved little beasts, O King. They have never bitten you in your absence! They are the most honest of your subjects. They have never taken anything from you without informing you of the fact. There are not many like that. And they are not at present suffering from hunger. Not many like that either. _King Bilbonzo_. Silence, now! Do you know wherefore you have been summoned hither? _Don Torribio._ Certainly. We are going to act a little play together. You are Nebuchadnezzar, and I am Daniel. _King Bilbonzo_ (_to Palaemon_). I see your Excellency has already enlightened him. _Palaemon._ Certainly not, your Majesty. _King Bilbonzo._ Ah! this is indeed surprising. Listen then, and I will tell you my dream. _Don Torribio._ No, noâyou need not let me off any of my part. I mean to play Daniel entireâbut I am not going to let you off the grass-eating, either! Do you listen to me, and I will interpret the dream. _King Bilbonzo._ Wellâthis is astonishing! _Ministers._ Think of that, now! _Homaris._ All pre-concerted! _Don Torribio._ Gathering shells is an innocent and even laudable employment,âbut it should be carried on on a safe shore, and not within reach of hungry sea-monsters. Every manâand more especially a kingâought to know what his house is built on. If your house happens to standânot on a rock foundation, but on the back of a sleeping whale, you must not dance too vigorously, or you will probably wake the brute. It is safer to swim about in the sea on the back of a shark, than to be king of a famished people. The conclusion of your dream I will interpret to you after the grass-eating. Now it is your turn. _King Bilbonzo._ This is really going too far! Our toleration has reached its limits. Can you be wanting to sow discord between Us and our beloved people? Out of our sight, impious liar!âthis very moment! _Hyacinthe_ (_the Poet-Laureateâseated next to the King_). Majesty!âlook out for your crown! _King Bilbonzo._ Oh!âthanks! [_Sets his crown straight._] _Don Torribio._ _Omen accipio._ How do you wish me to disappear, O King? _Palaemon_ (_to a footman_). Fetch the lictors to remove this person. _King Bilbonzo._ My lords, you will agree with me that a man like this is very dangerous to the State. _Homaris._ I had feared as much, Sire! He is a clever quack, and what he sells is poison for the people. _Lepidus._ But his knowledge was something wonderful. _Homaris._ Tricks!âmost likely thereâs bribery at the bottom of it. _Hyacinthe._ Or else atheistic magic. _King Bilbonzo._ In any case, my Lord Palaemon, you ought to have taken measures somewhat earlier to prevent his doing harm. _Palaemon._ He shall be thrown into chains at once. _Amenias_ (_4^{th} Minister_). It is really a case for capital punishment. _King Bilbonzo._ Noâour delight is to show mercy. When the judges have condemned him to death, we will commute the sentence into penal servitude for life. _A Footman._ Your Excellency!âthe lictors. [_Torribio has suddenly vanished during the previous conversation._] _Palaemon._ Let this man be strictly confined. _A Footman._ What man, your Excellency? _Palaemon._ Hereâwhat! Where is he? _Ministers._ What! Where is he? Gone? _King Bilbonzo._ This is unspeakably insolent! _Amenias._ He was standing here when I last saw him. _Palaemon._ He was standing here. [_They search all over the room._] _King Bilbonzo_ (to _Amenias_). What is that on the floor? _Amenias_ (_picking it up_). A tuft of grass, Sire! _King Bilbonzo._ This is infamous ribaldry. _Lepidus._ It is very mysterious. _Homaris._ Jugglersâ tricks! We have all been made fools of. _Footman_ (_opening a door_). Breakfast is served, your Majesty! _King Bilbonzo._ Come, my lords,âsearch no further! It is not worth while. Follow me! [_He retires with dignity_.] _Hyacinthe_ (_follows, improvising_)â Shall hate and envy dim its lustreâ The crown on royal brows that glowsâ And rob the People of their father, And lead both parties by the nose? La, la, la, laâno, never! no, never! La, la, la! [_Exeunt omnes, following one another in a solemn procession._ FREDERICK VAN EEDEN. (_From the Comedy of âDon Torribio.â_) THE DOMINIE.[3] âIt is a very serious matter,â said Gerrit Rond, the burgomaster, to Kobus. âVery serious, indeed,â replied Kobus, the _veldwachter_.[4] âIt is a disgrace to the whole parish!â continued the burgomaster. âAn everlasting disgrace!â repeated the veldwachter. Then followed an ominous silence, in the course of which the burgomaster, with gloomy countenance and wildly rolling eye, attentively followed the movements of a fly which was leisurely walking about the stately expanse of his waistcoat; while the veldwachter kept a watchful eye on his superiorâs features, that he might not fail to mould his own accordingly. In the meantime, he knit his brows, and provided himself with a half-expectant, half-threatening expression. [Illustration: âIT IS A DISGRACE TO THE WHOLE PARISH!â ] At length the reverend head of Gerrit, the burgomaster, solemnly rose upright, and his reflection opposite did the same. âKobus,â said Gerrit, âit _must_ be seen to.â And Kobus replied: âIt _shall_ be seen to, if your worship pleases.â âVery good, Kobus; and I _do_ pleaseâof that I assure you....â âI think Iâve got something,â said Gerrit, with an astute smile, and rubbed his nose with a civic forefinger, in a satisfied way. âHa!â cried Kobus, triumphantly. âYes, surely, ... surely, ...â said Gerrit, as though thinking aloud,âstill, astute, smiling, and rubbing his nose, ... âBut let us at least go over the whole thing once moreâat least the main point.â âShall I tell your worship once more, exactly?â asked Kobus, with a self-satisfied laugh. âWell, yes, it will be just as well. I can then weigh the importance of the whole matter so much better. Just go on,â said the burgomaster, with the lofty attitude of one who is quite sure of himself, and can afford to wait for anything, seeing that his resolution is already taken. âI will therefore tell your worship, once more,â began Kobus, âthat on Saturday weekâa fortnight ago to-morrowâJan oâ the Wood came running into my house with a faceâwith a face....â âLike Balthasar Gerardâs,â[5] the burgomaster helped him out, with a certain gloomy majesty befitting the dignity of his position and his historical knowledge. âThat would be just about it,â said Kobus, with deep respect, and then went on. âHe rushed into my house with a face likeâhâm, hâmâitâs sinful to think ofâwhat a face the man had! And first he dropped down on a chair, and couldnât speak a wordânot a letterâyour worship! My wife gave him a glass of water, and she said, says she, âCome, Jan, just drink a little, and then youâll come to yourself again, and then you can tell us whatâs the matter.â Thatâs what she said, your worship,âfor them women-folk are always so curious, and she was just on fire, I tell you. Jan soon got his breath, and then it came outâhow, that nightâlast Saturday week, a fortnight ago to-morrowâtwo baskets full of pears had been taken away from his treesâtwo whole baskets, your worship!â Gerrit Rond, the burgomaster, the principal resident, and the respected head of his parish, stroked his plump chin complacently, and looked at his factotum, quietly smiling. âWell; and what more, Kobus?â Such imperturbable calm must surely conceal a great plan, thought the veldwachter; and he was several seconds recovering from his consternation. Then he stammered,â âAnd ... and ... nothing more, your worship. I reported the matter to you at once; I drew up the _procÃ¨s-verbal_. But though I have done my best to find out....â The honest veldwachter completed his sentence by shrugging his shoulders, extending his arms, and dropping them again,âillustrating the whole pantomime by a face expressive of the utmost helplessness. But now Gerrit Rond, burgomaster, the principal resident, and respected head of the community, arose from his municipal arm-chair, and spake,â âKobus, I know it!â Kobus listened in breathless excitement. âKobus,â the burgomaster went on, looking round him with vigilant eyes, as though he suspected that pear-thieves might be hidden in the corners of his sitting-room,ââKobus, did he steal _all_ the pears?â The veldwachter was silent, and looked questioningly at the burgomaster. He could not make out what the latter was driving at. âI mean,â explained the father of the citizens, âwhether Jan oâ the Wood has not got a single pear left on his trees?â âWell; no, sir. Two baskets the rascal made off with; but how many baskets there were to be had in that orchard, I donât know. Itâs quite terrible the way Janâs trees bear, and everything prime quality, large-sized, and juicy. I think Janâs father had them before him, and he must have brought them....â âThat will do, Kobus,â the burgomaster interrupted his subordinate; âbut thatâs not the point.... So the pears have not _all_ been removed? I mean, by this, that the thief has not unlawfully possessed himself of the _whole?_â âWhy, no, your worship.â âNow, Kobus, look here.â Kobus listened respectfully, understanding that the critical moment had now arrived. âMy father, Kobus, was a man of sense, and when he had enjoyed anything, he always used to say, âThis peach tastes of more.ââ âOh, yes!â exclaimed Kobus, as though suddenly enlightened,âwhereas, in truth, he was more puzzled than ever. âAnd, look you, Kobus, the apple can never fall far from the tree. My father was a sensible man; and I, too, say, âThis peach tastes of more,â and....â Here the burgomaster looked through his half-closed eyelids with an air of infinite sagacity, and added, slowly dragging out his words, one by one,â â... AndâthatâI suspectâthe thiefâwillâsayâtoo.â âO-o-oh!â bellowed the veldwachter; âI understandâthe thief will want more pears. He will come back, and then weâll catch him?â The burgomaster looked at his factotum with a paternal air of approbation. âKobus!â said he, âsomething may be made of you yet!â âDoes your worship think that?â cried Kobus, in an ecstasy,âand a rosy prospect instantly appeared before his mindâs eyeâchief agent in a large town, commissioner of police, nay, perhaps,âbut that he would not have dared to say out loud for any money in the world,âperhaps, one day, even burgomaster! âBut now to business, Kobus! This very night we will try to catch the thief; and my name is not Gerrit Rond if we donât succeed. Weâll hide in Janâs orchard, and when he comes weâll collar him, and then....â Here the burgomaster-detective pointed downwards. Under the tower of the court-house there was a vault or cellar of masonry, which usually served as a receptacle for old iron and thieves; the latter destination, however, was unknown, save by tradition, for only the very oldest inhabitants of the village dimly remembered an evil-doer being imprisoned there. Kobus then suggested that it might be as well to take his son Hannes with him on their expedition, a suggestion which might have been unkindly interpreted by outsiders, for there were unpleasant reports current about the brave _garde-champÃªtreâs_ reluctance to pursue criminals alone. The suggestion, however, found favour in the eyes of the magistrate, as it would enable them to take forty winks while the boy watched for the appearance of the thief. This being settled, Kobus withdrew, to reappear at the appointed time that evening. But he had not been gone long when a loud knocking startled the burgomaster out of an incipient reverie. âCome in!â he cried, somewhat ungraciously, and the opening door revealed Kobusâs bearded face; but this time with so scared an expression, and such wildly rolling eyes, that Gerrit turned rigid with terror and, pale as
{'title': 'The Humour of Holland by W. H. Dircks, Dudley Hardy, and Alice Werner', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}