Illustrations by the author
A Side-Street
YOU will not have anv difficulty in finding the Dam, with the Queen’s Palace for its main building, and rising back of it, the Oude Kirk, tinking out the quarter-hours with bells of sixteenth-century make, time softened, with notes blending and harmonizing like the colors of an old brocade; but, if you wish to see one of the old streets of Amsterdam, such as the burgomasters traversed before making that tempestuous voyage to settle New Amsterdam, or which were the home and inspiration of Van Dyke or De Hooge, you will have to put your guide book on one side and strike out boldly for yourself. You may accomplish this (as I did, for instance) by becoming lost in the maze of winding streets, and then finding your way back to your hotel. And now that I am safely out of it, my pleasantest recollections are of one morning spent in a little side street which ran between two canals and led down to the water front. The way was narrow, sometimes leading across little bridges over the canals, where sturdy boatmen were pushing their heavily laden boats through the water-ways—with their shoulder firmly set against the knob at the end of their long pole, how they can push!
Upon the buildings the flavor of two centuries hung heavily. Little bequirled gables, gayly colored tablets and quaint scrolls set in brickwork of by-gone days, formed the façade of the little houses, and the square-
Drawn by Edward Penfield
A side-street in Amsterdam.
paned sashes of the neat windows always seemed as if they had just been painted. Beams, sometimes fancifully carved, jutted from the gables overhead like so many threatening gallows.[1]
With their own ideas of the perpendicular, some of the houses leaned this way and some that, like so many drunken Dutchmen; others were moderately straight and sober half way up, and then took a hazardous topple until one wondered what unrecorded law of nature kept them from falling over. Conscientious brickwork and good mortar, I venture, is largely responsible for their existence. As I stood I front of one of them, bearing a tablet of 1507, I peered into its half-open door. My imagination supplied the leaded glass front (which is now replaced by more modern sash) and hanging from the rafters were models of ancient craft. Before me rose the form of Hendrik Hudson, in serious and stolid council with the members of the West India Trading Company, fitting out the Half Moon for her voyage of discovery, little dreaming they were forming the opening wedge for the founding of New York.
It seems strange to me that some historical society has not transported one of these houses to our shores, to mark the most picturesque phase of our existence. They are small and could he sawed in sections and set up exactly as they stand. What an addition one would be to the historical interest of New York! We have not one example of the old Dutch house, such as was reared on the Battery and greeted the eyes of Stuyvesant when he landed. Ours were built after the pattern of the Amsterdam houses, where the sturdy burgomasters hailed from, and I hope these few words may impress some patriotic historical society, which has in its coffers substance that may otherwise he invested in a statue of the Central Park variety. But to return to our side street.
Little, sweet-smelling bake-shops were passed, tiled from floor to ceiling; trays and scales of copper and brass shining like gold, lent to the cheerfulness of the interior and formed a setting for the red-cheeked girl in freshly starched cap, who sold and served. Stopping in one particularly attractive © “Cremerie,” I ordered a cup of “chocolade” and a sandwich of “brod en Kaase™, and, as I sat and supped, I saw more rosy-cheeked maids in sabots (the one in the “cremerie,” wore big velvet slippers) scrubbing with mop and broom everything they could lay their hands on. The brass-bedecked green door was being polished, and the brick pavement which had turned gray and green in spots from two centuries of dampness, was receiving another coat of water. The clatter of sabots sounded the passing of pedestrians. A weather-beaten boatman went by, followed by a market-woman in her bulging skirts, then a girl, sweet and demure, who looked as if she was part of the Middle Ages, when people went about dressed like checker-boards. 
A group of the islanders were waiting to greet excursionists—Page 50
Her costume was black on the right side and the left was scarlet with the exception of the sleeve, which was black.
The serving girl spoke “vaar leetle Englais,” but I managed to make out that it was the costume of the Amsterdam orphan, from “Ze Charity School.” This costume was given to this institution in the fourteenth century and has been preserved to the present dav. “Some Eengleeshman, he say ‘half-orphan’, but it ees not so,” volunteered my informant. When I thought of the red part of that costume, it was certainly difficult to imagine its wearer a full-fledged orphan.
The time came for me to pay my bill (which was surprisingly small), and I went out into the street. The chimes were telling me that I was near the “Dam,” and I turned my steps in that direction. At a crossing I had to pause. for a crowd was blocking the way. I learned that the Queen was expected; and I waited to see her, wondering why she should pick out this side side street for her drive. She soon came by, in a carriage very much like our Victoria, and followed by a hundred or more mounted guards with swords clanking at their horses’ sides. I have heard it said that the Dutch love their Queen, but a surly and ill-mannered crowd it was who stood about. Hats were not removed generally, and some of her subjects whistled as she passed. I was sorry, for she looked mild and sweet, and rather pale, as she sat and bowed from right to left.
The Isle of Marken
Drawn by Edward Penfield
The “half-orphan.”—Page 48.
The tourists had hardly had time to make themselves comfortable on the quarter-deck, before the tall, bare masts of the fishing fleet of these amphibious islands showed themselves on the horizon. Before long, the engine slowed down and the little steamer entered the breakwater and glided noiselessly to the landing place. A group of the islanders were waiting to greet the excursionists, in their gayly colored costumes, which they have religiously clung to through all the disturbing influences of Fashion, that irritating, relentless, and arbitrary mistress of modern life. Here she has found no listeners, and the omnipresent advance agent of modern vagaries of the beautiful has not ventured. With their high-crowned hats and loose baggy breeches to the knee, the men, one and all, had their hands pushed well down into their roomy
A Marken fishing-boat.
pockets, and viewed the approach with a calculating and sober air. The women’s caps were red crowned, with a piece of lace in front. Their hair, which was very blond, was worn in two long curls, one hanging down each side of the face, and a stiff if, stubborn little bang curling out from under the head-dress like the visor of a cap. I must hesitate at a description of the waist, as it was made up of so many parts that I have lost myself in its mysteries; but the general impression is that of red sleeves and highly colored and striking patterns of green, red, or brown about the body. The skirts were the bulgy kind, as is found all over Holland, and the feet were encased in wooden ‘“shoon” like those of the men. Their hands, which were not small, seemed to bother them, however, for they had no pockets to hide them in, and seemed to solve the problem by going about in twos and threes, tightly grasping each other’s hands. How crudely Dutch they were, and how far away from everything modern!
The iron steamer was the only jarring note of an overstrung civilization, and that was being left behind, as the party stepped ashore and followed their captain through 
Three little maids of Marken.
A Marken interior.
the group of curiously dressed people, who returned their looks of astonishment. Over small bridges the little black tarred houses of the islands, with their red-tiled roofs, were
soon reached, the casings of the small, square-paned windows and doors contrasting beautifully white against the blackened walls. Green doors, and here and there a red-striped green shutter lent color to the scheme, and some of the doorways were relieved with the emblem of a ship painted in black, above them, with the date of the building arranged on either side. The captain stopped to explain that the occupants were often “much wealthy,” living a simple life, far away from the vanities of this foolish world, with no expenditure except for the necessities of life, and a lucrative fishing trade constantly, through generations, adding to the family strong box; and it was found by exploring, that many a modest exterior held articles of virtu, which many collectors would like to possess. The floors were covered with china matting, much heavier than the usual kind, and scrubbed very clean. It is the custom among the people to leave their shoes outside when they enter, walking on the matting in their heavily stockinged feet; and no doubt the cleanly Marken housewife has many qualms as the tourist, unacquainted with the custom, knocks at her door for admission. The fine linen is kept in Flemish oak chests, some of them heavily carved; and the beds, which are in the
A Dutch sailor. wall, are usually covered with gayly colored spreads and pillow-cases, embroidered in conventional designs, somewhat resembling a sampler of earlier days. About
the blue-tiled fireplaces were hung the well-burnished brass and copper utensils for cooking, for the Dutch house has but one main room, serving as it does for drawing-room, kitchen, and bedroom. One fire cooks the food and furnishes warmth and cheer for the household. Delft plates adorned the rafters and shelves overhead, and the flour barrel, coffee-mill, and other homely things were usually arranged in a little shrine beside the oaken chest.
It is said that the wily Jew leaves a collection of “antiques” at the houses most visited by tourists, and collects his share from the apparently simple occupant, and that the treasure hunter, bent on his mission of “picking up” rare and old pieces, often finds that it is he himself who has been ‘‘picked up”; so beware!
On the brick pavement outside the privacy of the islanders was being disturbed by camera fiends vainly following up a good subject, who in turn had decided objections to being photographed and adroitly vanished in a doorway while the amateurs were trying to fix him in the finder.
In time the steamer’s whistle sounded a warning note, and the tourists made a general move toward the landing place, leaving the islanders to resume their peaceful lives. Three little maids came down the previously invaded street with clasped hands; their throats were straight and they walked erect, almost boyish in their strength and simplicity. A fisherman emerged from an_alley-way, wearing a nor’wester of yellow oilskin. Funnel-like arrangements on his ankles to keep the water out of his wooden “shoon”’ gave him that touch of Dutch clumsiness, which distinguished him from his English-speaking brother.
Once more an atmosphere of tranquillity threw its mantle over the households of the thrifty islanders, as the hurrying tourists departed on their vibrating iron steamer, which, when it left the bay in a°cloud of purple steam, strongly contrasted with the tubby boats of the fishermen, lazily rocking and creaking, content to wait for favorable winds and tides.
Tourists at Marken.
- ↑ A Dutch cellar as a damp affair at the best, and these beams are used to hoist supplies, such as fuel, potatoes, etc. to the general store room. which is directly under the roof and corresponds to our attic.