The Crayon Papers: Broek

Broek

OF 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 from 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
village 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 families which have
inhabited the place since time immemorial, 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 sail along the lazy
bosom of a canal, but its sail consisted of the 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 further I came in sight of the harbor or port of
destination of this drowsy navigator. This was the Broeken-Meer, an
artificial basin, or sheet of olive-green water, tranquil as a mill-pond.
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 very trunks of the trees in front of the houses were by the same
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
�tat major, who had come from Amsterdam to view the wonders of Broek,
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 then a hand, and a long pipe, and an
occasional puff of smoke, out of the window of some "lusthaus" 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
informed 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 modeled 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 little 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 rushes; while a wooden sportsman,
crouched among the bushes, 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 bare-faced 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 with them. At every new knick-knack 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 b�tises l�_!"

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 saucepans, 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 fireplace 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 woodcuts,
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 Pa�s and Pinkster, and all the other merry-makings
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 everything 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 that their preachers endeavored to arouse their
thoughts as to a 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, or ass, or cat, or dog, or anything 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.

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