Much of the washing is done in the little canal which flows through the town, and this is easily accomplished, as linen is not worn to any great extent, as in other places, and the coarse homespun garments are cleansed by a very simple process.
Sheep, grazing upon many of the green pasture lands, form a homelike, peaceful scene which is very attractive. The air is fresh, yet balmy, imparting tone and vigor to the sturdy natives.
At last we bid adieu to this stationary spot upon the earth’s surface, wondering if an earthquake or any other startling event will ever happen here to rouse it from its lethargy, and compel it to take its place in the march of the ages. If not, it will remain as of old, a boon to the artist, an infinite source from which he may draw quaint, ideal and most original studies of a people and an era whose counterpart has long since vanished from our everyday world.
In our travels in the northern portion of Holland, and away from the larger cities, as Amsterdam and Rotterdam, which are more visited by tourists, we find that our letters of credit extend over an astonishing space of time, for a little money goes a long way among these people. The regions seem to be too remote for the regular tourist, and as there is no great influx of capital from that source, there is no inducement for the people to change their simple and primitive mode of living, hence honesty, frugality and contentment reign here, and the visitor may enjoy to its full extent, the beautiful country and the pure, innocent life of its inhabitants.
The quaint and simple town of Monnikendam lies some fifteen or sixteen miles north of Amsterdam, and here is a rich and rare scene of ancient associations. Eyes, ears and brain are almost bewildered by the exquisite strangeness of our surroundings. Here are houses with the date of their birth inscribed over the doorways, and the odd designs of bygone centuries still clinging to their walls.
These ancient dates and the rich beauty of these aged tenements impress us with a feeling of awe, and we walk softly as we pass the hallowed ground upon which so many lives have risen, passed their little day, then vanished to make place for the next players. Of the two hotels which the town supports, we choose the oldest, the Hotel de Posthoorn, which derives its name from the fact that at an early date the building was used as a post office station. In those days the postman carried a horn, which he blew when approaching a station, as a notice to the townfolk to have their mail ready for collection, that he might not be detained, as his route was long and wearisome.
| “Hotel de Posthoorn.” (See page 186.) |