No More Learning

In 1856 he entered the civil service of
Great Britain, and ever since that date he has held offices in the
Board of Trade. His leisure was devoted to literature, and when
Anthony Trollope first issued his magazine St. Paul's in 1868, he
introduced to the public the verse of Austin Dobson. In 1873 his
fugitive poems were published in a small volume entitled 'Vignettes
in Rhyme' and 'Vers de Société. ' This was followed in 1877 by
'Proverbs in Porcelain,' and both books, with additional poems, were
printed again in two volumes: 'Old World Idylls' (1883), and 'At the
Sign of the Lyre' (1885). Mr. Dobson's original essays are contained
in three volumes: Four Frenchwomen,' studies of Charlotte Corday,
Madame Roland, the Princess de Lamballe, and Madame de Genlis
(1890), and Eighteenth-Century Vignettes' (first series 1892, second
series 1894), which touch upon a host of picturesque and fascinating
themes. He has written also several biographies: of Hogarth, of
Fielding, of Steele (1886), of Goldsmith (1888), and a 'Memoir of
Horace Walpole' (1890). He has also written felicitous critical intro-
ductions to many new editions of the eighteenth-century classics.
Austin Dobson has been most happy in breathing English life into
the old poems of French verse, such as ballades, villanelles, roun-
dels, and rondeaux; and he has also written clever and satirical
fables, cast in the form and temper of Gay and Prior, with quaint
obsolete affectations, redolent of the classic age of Anne.
So serious is his attitude towards art, and so large his audience,
that the hope expressed in the following rondeau will certainly be
realized:-
IN AFTER days, when grasses high
O'er-top the stone where I shall lie,
Though ill or well the world adjust
My slender claim to honored dust,
I shall not question nor reply.
I shall not see the morning sky,
I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;
I shall be mute, as all men must,
In after days.


## p. 4743 (#537) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
4743
But yet, now living, fain were I
That some one then should testify,
Saying- He held his pen in trust
To Art, not serving shame or lust.
- Then let my memory die
In after days!
Will none
"A
Eather Singleton
ON A NANKIN PLATE
VILLANELLE
H ME, but it might have been!
Was there ever so dismal a fate? "
Quoth the little blue mandarin.
"Such a maid as was never seen:
She passed, tho' I cried to her, 'Wait,'—
Ah me, but it might have been!
"I cried, "O my Flower, my Queen,
Be mine! ''Twas precipitate,"
Quoth the little blue mandarin.
"But then
she was just sixteen,—
Long-eyed, as a lily straight,-
Ah me, but it might have been!
"As it was, from her palankeen
She laughed 'You're a week too late! '»
(Quoth the little blue mandarin. )
"That is why, in a mist of spleen
I mourn on this Nankin Plate.
Ah me, but it might have been! "
Quoth the little blue mandarin.


## p. 4744 (#538) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
4744
THE OLD SEDAN-CHAIR
"What's not destroyed by Time's devouring Hand?
Where's Troy,- and where's the May-Pole in the Strand ? »
BRAMSTON'S ART OF POLITICKS. '
-
T STANDS in the stable-yard, under the eaves,
Propped up by a broomstick and covered with leaves;
It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,
But now 'tis a ruin,—that old Sedan-chair!
It is battered and tattered,- it little avails
That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;
For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square
Like a canvas by Wilkie,- that old Sedan-chair.
See, here come the bearing-straps; here were the holes
For the poles of the bearers--when once there were poles;
It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,
As the birds have discovered,- that old Sedan-chair.
"Where's Troy? " says the poet! Look; under the seat
Is a nest with four eggs; 'tis a favored retreat
Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,
Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan-chair.
―
And yet Can't you fancy a face in the frame
Of the window,- some high-headed damsel or dame,
Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,
While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan-chair?
Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands,
With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,
With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,
As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan-chair?
Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league
It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;
Stout fellows! -but prone, on a question of fare,
To brandish the poles of that old Sedan-chair!
It has waited by portals where Garrick has played;
It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade";
For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,
It has waited-and waited, that old Sedan-chair!


## p. 4745 (#539) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,-
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare! )
Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan-chair!
"Heu! quantum mutata," I say as I go.
It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!
We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,-"With Care,».
To a Fine-Art Museum-that old Sedan-chair.
WHE
THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME
HEN the ways are heavy with mire and rut,
In November fogs, in December snows,
When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,—
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows,
And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb,
And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows,
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows,
And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,-
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
-
In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut,
In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes,"
In a starched procession of "If" and "But,"
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a soft glance softer grows
And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,
And the secret is told "that no one knows,"
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
-
-
ENVOY
In the work-a-day world,- for its needs and woes,
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime,
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
4745


## p. 4746 (#540) ###########################################

4746
AUSTIN DOBSON
THE CURE'S PROGRESS
ONSIEUR THE CURÉ down the street
Comes with his kind old face,-
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
M
You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place,»
And the tiny "Hôtel-de-Ville";
He smiles as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Théophile.
He turns as a rule through the "Marché» cool,
Where the noisy fishwives call;
And his compliment pays to the "belle Thérèse,"
As she knits in her dusky stall.
There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop,
And Toto, the locksmith's niece,
Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes
In his tails for a pain d'épice.
There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit
Who is said to be heterodox,
That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui! »
And a pinch from the Curé's box.
There is also a word that no one heard
To the furrier's daughter Lou;
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,
And a "Bon Dieu garde M'sieu ! "
But a grander way for the Sous-Préfet,
And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne;
And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat,
And a nod to the Sacristan:
-:
For ever through life the Curé goes
With a smile on his kind old face-
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.


## p. 4747 (#541) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
4747
•
"GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE »
"Si vieillesse pouvait! »
SCENE. -A small neat room. In a high Voltaire chair sits a white-haired
old gentleman.
M. VIEUXBOIS [turning querulously]
Day of my life! Where can she get?
BABETTE! I say! BABETTE! —Babette!
BABETTE [entering hurriedly]
Coming, M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks
So loud, he won't be well for weeks!
M. VIEUXBOIS
Where have you been?
·
April! . Ville-d' Avray! .
BABETTE
Why, M'sieu' knows:-
Ma'm'selle ROSE!
M. VIEUXBOIS
Ah! I am old,- and I forget.
Was the place growing green, BABETTE?
BABETTE
But of a greenness! - Yes, M'sieu'!
And then the sky so blue! — so blue!
And when I dropped my immortelle,
How the birds sang!
[Lifting her apron to her eyes. ]
This poor Ma'm'selle!
M. VIEUXBOIS
You're a good girl, BABETTE, but she,-
She was an angel, verily.
Sometimes I think I see her yet
Stand smiling by the cabinet;
And once, I know, she peeped and laughed
Betwixt the curtains.
--
[She gives him a cup. ]
Now I shall sleep, I think, BABETTE;-
Sing me your Norman chansonnette.
Where's the draught?


## p. 4748 (#542) ###########################################

4748
AUSTIN DOBSON
BABETTE [sings]
"Once at the Angelus
(Ere I was dead),
Angels all glorious
Came to my bed;
Angels in blue and white,
Crowned on the head. "
M. VIEUXBOIS [drowsily]
"She was an Angel" . . "Once she laughed"
What! was I dreaming?
·
-
M. VIEUXBOIS
BABETTE [showing the empty cup]
The draught, M'sieu'?
Where's the draught?
How I forget!
I am so old! But sing, BABETTE!
BABETTE [sings]
"One was the Friend I left
Stark in the Snow;
One was the Wife that died
Long,-long ago;
One was the Love I lost
How could she know? »
[He is asleep! ]
-
M. VIEUXBOIS [murmuring]
Ah PAUL! . . . old PAUL! . . . EULALIE, too!
And ROSE . And O! "the sky so blue! "
BABETTE [sings]
"One had my Mother's eyes,
Wistful and mild;
One had my Father's face;
One was a Child:
All of them bent to me,
Bent down and smiled! »
M. VIEUXBOIS [almost inaudibly]
How I forget!
I am so old! . . . Good-night, BABETTE!


## p. 4749 (#543) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S
A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN
Phyllida amo ante alias. »- VIRGIL.
HE ladies of St. James's
Go swinging to the play;
Their footmen run before them
With a "Stand by! Clear the way! "
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She takes her buckled shoon,
When we go out a-courting
Beneath the harvest moon.
THE
The ladies of St. James's
Wear satin on their backs;
They sit all night at Ombre,
With candles all of wax:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She dons her russet gown,
And runs to gather May-dew
Before the world is down.
The ladies of St. James's!
They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
The breath of heath and furze,
When breezes blow at morning,
Is not so fresh as hers.
The ladies of St. James's!
They're painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays forever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her color comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,-
It wavers like a rose.
The ladies of St. James's!
You scarce can understand
The half of all their speeches,
Their phrases are so grand:
4749


## p. 4750 (#544) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
4750
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her shy and simple words.
Are clear as after rain-drops
The music of the birds.
The ladies of St. James's!
They have their fits and freaks;
They smile on you- for seconds;
They frown on you- for weeks:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Come either storm or shine,
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,
Is always true- and mine.
My Phyllida! my Phyllida!
I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,
And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties
Of all the world may be,—
For Phyllida, my Phyllida,
Is all the world to me.
DORA VERSUS ROSE
"The Case is Proceeding
FR
ROM the tragic-est novels at Mudie's-
At least on a practical plan-
To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,
One love is enough for a man.
wwwww
But no case that I ever yet met is
Like mine: I am equally fond
Of Rose, who a charming brunette is,
And Dora, a blonde.
Each rivals the other in powers-
Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints-
Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers;
Miss Do. , perpendicular saints.
In short, to distinguish is folly;
'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass
Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,—
Or Buridan's ass.


## p. 4751 (#545) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
4751
If it happens that Rosa I've singled
For a soft celebration in rhyme,
Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled.
Somehow with the tune and the time;
Or I painfully pen me a sonnet
To an eyebrow intended for Do. 's,
And behold I am writing upon it
The legend, "To Rose. "
Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter
Is all over scrawled with her head),
If I fancy at last that I've got her,
It turns to her rival instead;
Or I find myself placidly adding
To the rapturous tresses of Rose
Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding,
Ineffable nose.
Was there ever so sad a dilemma?
For Rose I would perish (pro tem. );
For Dora I'd willingly stem a-
(Whatever might offer to stem);
But to make the invidious election,—
To declare that on either one's side
I've a scruple,—a grain,- more affection,
I cannot decide.
And as either so hopelessly nice is,
My sole and my final resource
Is to wait some indefinite crisis,—
Some feat of molecular force,
To solve me this riddle conducive
By no means to peace or repose,
Since the issue can scarce be inclusive
Of Dora and Rose.
(AFTER-THOUGHT)
But perhaps if a third (say, a Norah),
Not quite so delightful as Rose,
Nor wholly so charming as Dora,
Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,-
As the claims of the others are equal,-
And flight—in the main—is the best,—
That I might . . . But no matter,- the sequel
Is easily guessed.


## p. 4752 (#546) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
4752
UNE MARQUISE
A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE
"Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'amour. »
- MOLIÈRE.
AⓇ
I
S YOU sit there at your ease,
O Marquise!
And the men flock round your knees
Thick as bees,
Mute at every word you utter,
Servants to your least frill-flutter,
"Belle Marquise!
"
As you sit there, growing prouder,
And your ringed hands glance and go,
And your fan's frou-frou sounds louder,
And your
"beaux yeux" flash and glow;-
Ah, you used them on the Painter,
As you know,
For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter,
Bowing low,
Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy
That each sitter was not Circe,-
Or at least he told you so;—
Growing proud, I say, and prouder
To the crowd that come and go,
Dainty Deity of Powder,
Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau,
As you sit where lustres strike you,
Sure to please,
Do we love you most, or like you,
"Belle Marquise! "
II
-
You are fair; oh yes, we know it
Well, Marquise;
For he swore it, your last poet,
On his knees;
And he called all heaven to witness
Of his ballad and its fitness,
"Belle Marquise! "
You were everything in ère
(With exception of sévère),——


## p. 4753 (#547) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
4753
VIII-298
You were cruelle and rebelle,
With the rest of rhymes as well;
You were "Reine" and "Mère d'Amour»;
You were "Vénus à Cythère";
"Sappho mise en Pompadour,"
And "Minerve en Parabère";
You had every grace of heaven
In your most angelic face,
With the nameless finer leaven
Lent of blood and courtly race;
And he added, too, in duty,
Ninon's wit and Boufflers's beauty;
And La Vallière's yeux veloutés
Followed these;
And you liked it, when he said it
(On his knees),
And you kept it, and you read it,
"Belle Marquise! »
III
Yet with us your toilet graces
Fail to please,
And the last of your last faces,
And your mise;
For we hold you just as real,
"Belle Marquise! "
As your Bergers and Bergères,
Tes d'Amour and Batelières;
As your pares, and your Versailles,
Gardens, grottoes, and socailles;
As your Naiads and your trees;-
Just as near the old ideal
Calm and ease,
As the Venus there by Coustou,
That a fan would make quite flighty,
Is to her the gods were used to,-.
Is to grand Greek Aphroditè,
Sprung from seas.
You are just a porcelain trifle,
"Belle Marquise! »
Just a thing of puffs and patches
Made for madrigals and catches,
Not for heart wounds, but for scratches,
O Marquise!
-


## p. 4754 (#548) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
4754
Just a pinky porcelain trifle,
"Belle Marquise ! »
Wrought in rarest rose-Dubarry,
Quick at verbal point and parry,
Clever, doubtless; - but to marry,
No, Marquise!
IV
For your Cupid, you have clipped him,
Rouged and patched him, nipped and snipped him,
And with chapeau-bras equipped him,
"Belle Marquise! »
Just to arm you through your wife-time,
And the languors of your lifetime,
"Belle Marquise! "
Say, to trim your toilet tapers
Or to twist your hair in papers,
Or to wean you from the vapors;-
As for these,
You are worth the love they give you,
Till a fairer face outlive you,
Or a younger grace shall please;
Till the coming of the crows'-feet,
And the backward turn of beaux' feet,
"Belle Marquise ! »
Till your frothed-out life's commotion
Settles down to Ennui's ocean,
Or a dainty sham devotion,
"Belle Marquise! "
V
No: we neither like nor love you,
"Belle Marquise! »
Lesser lights we place above you,—
Milder merits better please.
We have passed from Philosophe-dom
Into plainer modern days,—
Grown contented in our oafdom,
Giving grace not all the praise,
And, en partant, Arsinoé,-
Without malice whatsoever,—
We shall counsel to our Chloë
To be rather good than clever;


## p. 4755 (#549) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
For we find it hard to smother
Just one little thought, Marquise!
Wittier perhaps than any other,-
You were neither Wife nor Mother,
"Belle Marquise! »
A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH
OF THE SPANISH ARMADA
ING PHILIP had vaunted his claims;
He had sworn for a year he would sack us;
With an army of heathenish names
K
He was coming to fagot and stack us;
Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,
And shatter our ships on the main;
But we had bold Neptune to back us,-
And where are the galleons of Spain?
His carackes were christened of dames
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,
And Drake to his Devon again,
And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,—
For where are, the galleons of Spain?
Let his Majesty hang to St. James
The axe that he whetted to hack us:
He must play at some lustier games.
Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;
To his mines of Peru he would pack us
To tug at his bullet and chain;
Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!
But where are the galleons of Spain?
4755
ENVOY
GLORIANA! -the Don may attack us
Whenever his stomach be fain;
He must reach us before he can rack us,
And where are the galleons of Spain?


## p. 4756 (#550) ###########################################

4756
AUSTIN DOBSON
THE PRINCESS DE LAMBALLE
From Four Frenchwomen'
A
TENDER wife, a loving daughter, and a loyal friend,- shall
we not here lay down upon the grave of Marie de Lam-
balle our reverential tribute, our little chaplet of immor-
telles, in the name of all good women, wives, and daughters?
"Elle était mieux femme que les autres. »* To us that appar-
ently indefinite, exquisitely definite sentence most fitly marks
the distinction between the subjects of the two preceding papers
and the subject of the present. It is a transition from the
stately figure of a marble Agrippina to the breathing, feeling
woman at your side; it is the transition from the statuesque
Rachelesque heroines of a David to the "small sweet idyl" of
a Greuze. And, we confess it, we were not wholly at ease
with those tragic, majestic figures. We shuddered at the dagger
and the bowl which suited them so well. We marveled at their
bloodless serenity, their superhuman self-sufficiency; inly we
questioned if they breathed and felt. Or was their circulation a
matter of machinery—a mere dead-beat escapement? We longed
for the sexe prononcé of Rivarol-we longed for the showman's
"female woman! " We respected and we studied, but we did
not love them. With Madame de Lamballe the case is other-
wise. Not grand like this one, not heroic like that one, "elle est
mieux femme que les autres. "
She at least is woman-after a fairer fashion —after a truer
type. Not intellectually strong like Manon Philipon, not Spar-
tan-souled like Marie de Corday, she has still a rare intelligence,
a courage of affection. She has that clairvoyance of the heart
which supersedes all the stimulants of mottoes from Reynel or
maxims from Rousseau; she has that "angel instinct” which is
a juster lawgiver than Justinian. It was thought praise to say
of the Girondist lady that she was a greater man than her hus-
band; it is praise to say of this queen's friend that she was
more woman than Madame Roland. Not so grand, not so great,
we like the princess best. Elle est mieux femme que les autres.
She was more woman than the others.


## p. 4757 (#551) ###########################################

4757
MARY MAPES DODGE
(1840 ? -)
O WRITE a story which in thirty years should pass through
more than a hundred editions, which should attain the apo-
theosis of an edition de luxe, which should be translated into
at least four foreign languages, be allotted the Montyon prize of 1500
francs for moral as well as literary excellence, and be crowned by
the French Academy-this is a piece of good fortune which falls to
the lot of few story-tellers. The book which has deserved so well is
'Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates,' a story of life in Holland. Its
author, born in New York, is a daughter of
Professor James Jay Mapes, an eminent
chemist and inventor, an accomplished
writer and brilliant talker.

In a household where music, art, and
literature were cultivated, and where the
most agreeable society came, talents were
not likely to be overlooked. Mrs. Dodge,
very early widowed, began writing before
she was twenty, publishing short stories,
sketches, and poems in various periodicals.
'Hans Brinker' appeared in 1864,-her de-
light in Motley's histories and their appeal
to her own Dutch blood inspiring her to
write it. Of this book Mr. Frank R. Stock-
ton says:-
-
MARY MAPES DODGE
"There are strong reasons why the fairest orange groves, the loftiest
mountain peaks, or the inspiriting waves of the rolling sea, could not tempt
average boys and girls from the level stretches of the Dutch canals, until they
had skated through the sparkling story, warmed with a healthy glow.
"This is not only a tale of vivid description, interesting and instructive;
it is a romance. There are adventures, startling and surprising, there are
mysteries of buried gold, there are the machinations of the wicked, there is
the heroism of the good, and the gay humor of happy souls. More than
these, there is love-that sentiment which glides into a good story as natu-
rally as into a human life; and whether the story be for old or young, this
element gives it an ever-welcome charm. Strange fortune and good fortune
come to Hans and to Gretel, and to many other deserving characters in the
tale, but there is nothing selfish about these heroes and heroines. As soon as


## p. 4758 (#552) ###########################################

4758
MARY MAPES DODGE
a new generation of young people grows up to be old enough to enjoy this
perennial story, all these characters return to the days of their youth, and
are ready to act their parts again to the very end, and to feel in their own
souls, as everybody else feels, that their story is just as new and interesting
as when it was first told. »
Besides this book, Mrs. Dodge has published several volumes of
juvenile verse, such as 'Rhymes and Jingles,' and 'When Life was
Young'; a volume of serious verse, 'Along the Way'; a volume of
satirical and humorous sketches, Theophilus and Others'; a second
successful story for young people, 'Donald and Dorothy,' and a
number of other works. Her stories evince an unusual faculty of
construction and marked inventiveness, inherited perhaps from
her father, truthful characterization, literary feeling, a strong sense
of humor, and a high ethical standard. Her whimsical character
sketch, Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question,' which has been
reprinted thousands of times and repeated by every elocutionist in
the land, is in its way as sea
earching a satire as Bret Harte's 'Heathen
Chinee. '
-
Since its beginning in 1873, Mrs. Dodge has edited the St. Nicholas
Magazine, whose pages bear witness to her enormous industry.
THE RACE
From Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates. ' Copyright 1896, by Charles
Scribner's Sons
THE
HE 20th of December came at last, bringing with it the per-
fection of winter weather. All over the level landscape lay
the warm sunlight. It tried its power on lake, canal, and
river; but the ice flashed defiance, and showed no sign of melt-
ing. The very weathercocks stood still to enjoy the sight. This
gave the windmills a holiday. Nearly all the past week they
had been whirling briskly; now, being rather out of breath, they
rocked lazily in the clear still air. Catch a windmill working
when the weathercocks have nothing to do!
There was an end to grinding, crushing, and sawing for that
day. It was a good thing for the millers near Broek. Long
before noon, they concluded to take in their sails and go to
the race. Everybody would be there. Already the north side
of the frozen Y was bordered with eager spectators; the news
of the great skating-match had traveled far and wide. Men,
women, and children, in holiday attire, were flocking toward the
spot. Some wore furs and wintry cloaks or shawls; but many,


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MARY MAPES DODGE
4759
consulting their feelings rather than the almanac, were dressed
as for an October day.
The site selected for the race was a faultless plain of ice near
Amsterdam, on that great arm of the Zuyder Zee, which Dutch-
men of course must call the Eye. The townspeople turned out
in large numbers. Strangers in the city deemed it a fine chance
to see what was to be seen. Many a peasant from the north-
ward had wisely chosen the 20th as the day for the next city-
trading. It seemed that everybody, young and old, who had
wheels, skates, or feet at command, had hastened to the scene.
There were the gentry in their coaches, dressed like Parisians
fresh from the Boulevards; Amsterdam children in charity uni-
forms; girls from the Roman Catholic Orphan House, in sable
gowns and white head-bands; boys from the Burgher Asylum,
with their black tights and short-skirted harlequin coats. There
were old-fashioned gentlemen in cocked hats and velvet knee-
breeches; old-fashioned ladies too, in stiff quilted skirts and
bodices of dazzling brocade. These were accompanied by serv-
ants bearing foot-stoves and cloaks. There were the peasant folk,
arrayed in every possible Dutch costume,- shy young rustics in
brazen buckles; simple village maidens concealing their flaxen
hair under fillets of gold; women whose long narrow aprons were
stiff with embroidery; women with short corkscrew curls hanging
over their foreheads; women with shaved heads and close-fitting
caps, and women in striped skirts and windmill bonnets; men
in leather, in homespun, in velvet and broadcloth; burghers in
modern European attire, and burghers in short jackets, wide trou-
sers, and steeple-crowned hats.
There were beautiful Friesland girls in wooden shoes and
coarse petticoats, with solid gold crescents encircling their heads,
finished at each temple with a golden rosette, and hung with lace
a century old. Some wore necklaces, pendants, and earrings of
the purest gold. Many were content with gilt, or even with
brass; but it is not an uncommon thing for a Friesland woman
to have all the family treasure in her headgear. More than one
rustic lass displayed the value of two thousand guilders upon her
head that day.
Scattered throughout the crowd were peasants from the Island
of Marken, with sabots, black stockings, and the widest of
breeches; also women from Marken, with short blue petticoats,
and black jackets gayly figured in front. They wore red sleeves,


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MARY MAPES DODGE
white aprons, and a cap like a bishop's mitre over their golden
hair.
The children often were as quaint and odd-looking as their
elders. In short, one-third of the crowd seemed to have stepped
bodily from a collection of Dutch paintings.
Everywhere could be seen tall women and stumpy men, lively-
faced girls, and youths whose expressions never changed from
sunrise to sunset.
There seemed to be at least one specimen from every known
town in Holland. There were Utrecht water-bearers, Gouda
cheese-makers, Delft pottery-men, Schiedam distillers, Amsterdam
diamond-cutters, Rotterdam merchants, dried-up herring-packers,
and two sleepy-eyed shepherds from Texel. Every man of them
had his pipe and tobacco pouch. Some carried what might be
called the smoker's complete outfit,-a pipe, tobacco, a pricker
with which to clean the tube, a silver net for protecting the bowl,
and a box of the strongest of brimstone matches.
A true Dutchman, you must remember, is rarely without his
pipe on any possible occasion. He may for a moment neglect to
breathe; but when the pipe is forgotten, he must be dying in-
deed. There were no such sad cases here. Wreaths of smoke
were rising from every possible quarter. The more fantastic the
smoke-wreath, the more placid and solemn the smoker.
Look at those boys and girls on stilts! That is a good idea.
They can look over the heads of the tallest. It is strange to see
those little bodies high in the air, carried about on mysterious
legs. They have such a resolute look on their round faces, what
wonder that nervous old gentlemen with tender feet wince and
tremble while the long-legged little monsters stride past them!
You will read in certain books that the Dutch are a quiet
people. So they are, generally. But listen! did you ever hear
such a din? All made up of human voices-no, the horses are
helping somewhat, and the fiddles are squeaking pitifully; (how
it must pain fiddles to be tuned! ) but the mass of the sound
comes from the great vox humana that belongs to a crowd.
That queer little dwarf, going about with a heavy basket,
winding in and out among the people, helps not a little. You
can hear his shrill cry above all other sounds, "Pypen en tabac!
Pypen en tabac! »
Another, his big brother, though evidently some years younger,
is selling doughnuts and bonbons. He is calling on all pretty


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4761
children, far and near, to come quickly or the cakes will be
gone.
You know quite a number among the spectators. High up
in yonder pavilion, erected upon the border of the ice, are some
persons whom you
have seen very lately. In the centre is
Madame Van Gleck. It is her birthday, you remember; she has
the post of honor. There is Mynheer Van Gleck, whose meer-
schaum has not really grown fast to his lips; it only appears so.
There are Grandfather and Grandmother, whom you met at the
St. Nicholas fête. All the children are with them. It is so
mild, they have brought even the baby. The poor little creature
is swaddled very much after the manner of an Egyptian mummy;
but it can crow with delight, and when the band is playing,
open and shut its animated mittens in perfect time to the music.
Grandfather, with his pipe and spectacles and fur cap, makes
quite a picture as he holds Baby upon his knee. Perched high
upon their canopied platforms, the party can see all that is going
on. No wonder the ladies look complacently at the glassy ice;
with a stove for a footstool, one might sit cosily beside the North
Pole.
There is a gentleman with them, who somewhat resembles
St. Nicholas as he appeared to the young Van Glecks on the
fifth of December. But the Saint had a flowing white beard, and
this face is as smooth as a pippin. His Saintship was larger
round the body too, and (between ourselves) he had a pair of
thimbles in his mouth, which this gentleman certainly has not.
It cannot be St. Nicholas, after all.
Near by in the next pavilion sit the Van Holps, with their son
and daughter (the Van Gends) from The Hague. Peter's sister
is not one to forget her promises. She has brought bouquets of
exquisite hot-house flowers for the winners.
These pavilions, and there are others beside,-have all been
erected since daylight. That semicircular one, containing Myn-
heer Korbes's family, is very pretty, and proves that the Hol-
landers are quite skilled at tent-making; but I like the Van
Glecks' best, the centre one, striped red and white, and hung
with evergreens.
The one with the blue flags contains the musicians. Those
pagoda-like affairs, decked with sea-shells and streamers of every
possible hue, are the judges' stands; and those columns and flag-
staffs upon the ice mark the limit of the race-course. The two
-


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4762
MARY MAPES DODGE
white columns twined with green, connected at the top by that
long floating strip of drapery, form the starting-point. Those
flagstaffs, half a mile off, stand at each end of the boundary line,
cut sufficiently deep to be distinct to the skaters, though not
deep enough to trip them when they turn to come back to the
starting-point.
"
The air is so clear, it seems scarcely possible that the col-
umns and flagstaffs are so far apart. Of course the judges'
stands are but little nearer together. Half a mile on the ice,
when the atmosphere is like this, is but a short distance after
all, especially when fenced with a living chain of spectators.
The music has commenced. How melody seems to enjoy
itself in the open air! The fiddles have forgotten their agony,
and everything is harmonious. Until you look at the blue tent,
it seems that the music springs from the sunshine, it is so bound-
less, so joyous. Only the musicians are solemn.
Where are the racers? All assembled together near the white
columns. It is a beautiful sight,- forty boys and girls in pictur-
esque attire, darting with electric swiftness in and out among
each other, or sailing in pairs and triplets, beckoning, chatting,
whispering, in the fullness of youthful glee.
A few careful ones are soberly tightening their straps; oth-
ers, halting on one leg, with flushed eager faces, suddenly cross
the suspected skate over their knee, give it an examining shake,
and dart off again. One and all are possessed with the spirit
of motion. They cannot stand still. Their skates are a part of
them, and every runner seems bewitched.
Holland is the place for skaters, after all. Where else can
nearly every boy and girl perform feats on the ice that would
attract a crowd if seen on Central Park? Look at Ben! I did
not see him before. He is really astonishing the natives; no
easy thing to do in the Netherlands. Save your strength, Ben;
you will need it soon. Now other boys are trying! Ben is sur-
passed already. Such jumping, such poising, such spinning, such
india-rubber exploits generally! That boy with a red cap is the
lion now; his back is a watch-spring, his body is cork-no, it is
iron, or it would snap at that. He is a bird, a top, a rabbit, a
corkscrew, a sprite, a flesh-ball, all in an instant.
When you
think he is erect, he is down; and when you think he is down,
he is up.
He drops his glove on the ice, and turns a somerset
as he picks it up. Without stopping, he snatches the cap from


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4763
Jacob Poot's astonished head, and claps it back again "hind side
before. " Lookers-on hurrah and laugh. Foolish boy! It is
arctic weather under your feet, but more than temperate over-
head. Big drops already are rolling down your forehead. Su-
perb skater as you are, you may lose the race.
A French traveler, standing with a notebook in his hand, sees
our English friend Ben buy a doughnut of the dwarf's brother,
and eat it.