 | Wolfert's roost |  |
BROEK:
THE DUTCH PARADISE.
It has long been a matter of discussion and controversy among
the pious and the learned, as to the situation of the terrestrial
paradise whence our first parents were exiled. This question
has been put to rest by certain of the faithful in Holland, who
have decided in favor of the vilage of Broek, about six miles
from Amsterdam. It may not, they observe, correspond in all
respects to the description of the garden of Eden, handed down
from days of yore, but it comes nearer to their ideas of a perfect
paradise than any other place on earth.
This eulogium induced me to make some inquiries as to this
favored spot, in the course of a sojourn at the city of Amsterdam,
and the information I procured fully justified the enthusiastic
praises I had heard. The village of Broek is situated in Waterland,
in the midst of the greenest and richest pastures of Holland,
I may say, of Europe. These pastures are the source of its
wealth, for it is famous for its dairies, and for those oval cheeses
which regale and perfume the whole civilized world. The population
consists of about six hundred persons, comprising several
and have waxed rich on the products of their meadows. They
keep all their wealth among themselves; intermarrying, and keeping
all strangers at a wary distance. They are a “hard money”
people, and remarkable for turning the penny the right way. It
is said to have been an old rule, established by one of the primitive
financiers and legislators of Broek, that no one should leave
the village with more than six guilders in his pocket, or return
with less than ten; a shrewd regulation, well worthy the attention
of modern political economists, who are so anxious to fix the balance
of trade.
What, however, renders Broek so perfect an elysium, in the
eyes of all true Hollanders, is the matchless height to which the
spirit of cleanliness is carried there. It amounts almost to a religion
among the inhabitants, who pass the greater part of their
time rubbing and scrubbing, and painting and varnishing: each
housewife vies with her neighbor in her devotion to the scrubbing
brush, as zealous Catholics do in their devotion to the cross; and
it is said, a notable housewife of the place in days of yore, is held
in pious remembrance, and almost canonized as a saint, for having
died of pure exhaustion and chagrin, in an ineffectual attempt
to scour a black man white.
These particulars awakened my ardent curiosity to see a place
which I pictured to myself the very fountain-head of certain hereditary
habits and customs prevalent among the descendants of the
original Dutch settlers of my native state. I accordingly lost no
time in performing a pilgrimage to Broek.
Before I reached the place, I beheld symptoms of the tranquil
character of its inhabitants. A little clump-built boat was in full
blades of two paddles stood on end, while the navigator sat steering
with a third paddle in the stern, crouched down like a toad,
with a slouched hat drawn over his eyes. I presumed him to be
some nautical lover, on the way to his mistress. After proceeding
a little farther, I came in sight of the harbor or port of destination
of this drowsy navigator. This was the Brocken-Meer, an
artificial basin, or sheet of olive-green water, tranquil as a millpond.
On this the village of Broek is situated, and the borders
are laboriously decorated with flower-beds, box-trees clipped into
all kinds of ingenious shapes and fancies, and little “lust” houses
or pavilions.
I alighted outside of the village, for no horse nor vehicle is
permitted to enter its precincts, lest it should cause defilement of
the well-scoured pavements. Shaking the dust off my feet, therefore,
I prepared to enter, with due reverence and circumspection,
this sanctum sanctorum of Dutch cleanliness. I entered by a
narrow street, paved with yellow bricks, laid edgewise, and so
clean that one might eat from them Indeed, they were actually
worn deep, not by the tread of feet, but by the friction of the
scrubbing-brush.
The houses were built of wood, and all appeared to have been
freshly painted, of green, yellow, and other bright colors. They
were separated from each other by gardens and orchards, and stood
at some little distance from the street, with wide areas or courtyards,
paved in mosaic, with variegated stones, polished by frequent
rubbing. The areas were divided from the street by curiously-wrought
railings, or balustrades, of iron, surmounted with
brass and copper balls, scoured into dazzling effulgence. The
process made to look as if they had been varnished. The porches,
doors, and window-frames of the houses were of exotic woods,
curiously carved, and polished like costly furniture. The front
doors are never opened, excepting on christenings, marriages, or
funerals: on all ordinary occasions, visitors enter by the back
door. In former times, persons when admitted had to put on
slippers, but this oriental ceremony is no longer insisted upon.
A poor devil Frenchman, who attended upon me as cicerone,
boasted with some degree of exultation, of a triumph of his countrymen
over the stern regulations of the place. During the time
that Holland was overrun by the armies of the French republic,
a French general, surrounded by his whole état major, who had
come from Amsterdam to view the wonders of Brock, applied for
admission at one of these taboo'd portals. The reply was, that
the owner never received any one who did not come introduced by
some friend. “Very well,” said the general; “take my compliments
to your master, and tell him I will return here to-morrow
with a company of soldiers, pour parler raison avec mon ami
Hollandais.” Terrified at the idea of having a company of soldiers
billeted upon him, the owner threw open his house, entertained
the general and his retinue with unwonted hospitality;
though it is said it cost the family a month's scrubbing and scouring,
to restore all things to exact order, after this military invasion.
My vagabond informant seemed to consider this one of the greatest
victories of the republic.
I walked about the place in mute wonder and admiration. A
dead stillness prevailed around, like that in the deserted streets
of Pompeii. No sign of life was to be seen, excepting now and
of the window of some “lust-haus” overhanging a miniature
canal; and on approaching a little nearer, the periphery in profile
of some robustious burgher.
Among the grand houses pointed out to me, were those of
Claes Bakker, and Cornelius Bakker, richly carved and gilded,
with flower-gardens and clipped shrubberies; and that of the
Great Ditmus, who, my poor devil cicerone imformed me, in a
whisper, was worth two millions; all these were mansions shut
up from the world, and only kept to be cleaned. After having
been conducted from one wonder to another of the village, I was
ushered by my guide into the grounds and gardens of Mynheer
Broekker, another mighty cheese-manufacturer, worth eighty
thousand guilders a year. I had repeatedly been struck with the
similarity of all that I had seen in this amphibious little village,
to the buildings and landscapes on Chinese platters and tea-pots;
but here I found the similarity complete; for I was told that
these gardens were modelled upon Van Bramm's description of
those of Yuen min Yuen, in China. Here were serpentine walks,
with trellised borders; winding canals, with fanciful Chinese
bridges; flower beds resembling huge baskets, with the flower of
“love lies bleeding” falling over to the ground. But mostly had
the fancy of Mynheer Broekker been displayed about a stagnant
little lake, on which a corpulent like pinnace lay at anchor. On
the border was a cottage, within which were a wooden man and
woman seated at table, and a wooden dog beneath, all the size of
life: on pressing a spring, the woman commenced spinning, and
the dog barked furiously. On the lake were wooden swans,
painted to the life: some floating, others on the nest among the
was preparing his gun to take deadly aim. In another part of
the garden was a dominie in his clerical robes, with wig, pipe,
and cocked hat; and mandarins with nodding heads, amid red
lions, green tigers, and blue hares. Last of all, the heathen deities,
in wood and plaster, male and female, naked and barefaced
as usual, and seeming to stare with wonder at finding themselves
in such strange company.
My shabby French guide, while he pointed out all these mechanical
marvels of the garden, was anxious to let me see that he
had too polite a taste to be pleased by them. At every new nicknack
he would screw down his mouth, shrug up his shoulders,
take a pinch of snuff, and exclaim: “Ma foi, Monsieur, ces Hollandais
sont forts pour ces betises la!”
To attempt to gain admission to any of these stately abodes
was out of the question, having no company of soldiers to enforce
a solicitation. I was fortunate enough, however, through the aid
of my guide, to make my way into the kitchen of the illustrious
Ditmus, and I question whether the parlor would have proved
more worthy of observation. The cook, a little wiry, hook-nosed
woman, worn thin by incessant action and friction, was bustling
about among her kettles and sauce-pans, with the scullion at her
heels, both clattering in wooden shoes, which were as clean and
white as the milk-pails; rows of vessels, of brass and copper, regiments
of pewter dishes, and portly porringers, gave resplendent
evidence of the intensity of their cleanliness; the very trammels
and hangers in the fire-place were highly scoured, and the burnished
face of the good Saint Nicholas shone forth from the iron
plate of the chimney-back.
Among the decorations of the kitchen, was a printed sheet of
wood-cuts, representing the various holiday customs of Holland,
with explanatory rhymes. Here I was delighted to recognize the
jollities of New-Year's day; the festivities of Paäs and Pinkster,
and all the other merrymakings handed down in my native place
from the earliest times of New-Amsterdam, and which had been
such bright spots in the year, in my childhood. I eagerly made
myself master of this precious document, for a trifling consideration,
and bore it off as a memento of the place; though I question
if, in so doing, I did not carry off with me the whole current
literature of Broek.
I must not omit to mention, that this village is the paradise
of cows as well as men: indeed you would almost suppose the cow
to be as much an object of worship here, as the bull was among
the ancient Egyptians; and well does she merit it, for she is in
fact the patroness of the place. The same scrupulous cleanliness,
however, which pervades every thing else, is manifested in the
treatment of this venerated animal. She is not permitted to perambulate
the place, but in winter, when she forsakes the rich pasture,
a well-built house is provided for her, well painted, and maintained
in the most perfect order. Her stall is of ample dimensions;
the floor is scrubbed and polished; her hide is daily curried and
brushed, and sponged to her heart's content, and her tail is
daintily tucked up to the ceiling, and decorated with a ribbon!
On my way back through the village, I passed the house of
the prediger, or preacher; a very comfortable mansion, which led
me to augur well of the state of religion in the village. On inquiry,
I was told that for a long time the inhabitants lived in a
great state of indifference as to religious matters: it was in vain
future state: the joys of heaven, as commonly depicted, were but
little to their taste. At length a dominie appeared among them,
who struck out in a different vein. He depicted the New Jerusalem
as a place all smooth and level; with beautiful dykes, and
ditches, and canals; and houses all shining with paint and varnish,
and glazed tiles; and where there should never come horse, nor
ass, nor cat, nor dog, nor any thing that could make noise or dirt;
but there should be nothing but rubbing and scrubbing, and washing
and painting, and gilding and varnishing, for ever and ever,
amen! Since that time, the good housewives of Broek have all
turned their faces Zionward.
| Wolfert's roost | |