Holland has taken a prominent part in European thought since about 1820. The Dutch language, instead of yielding to the domination of the German, has been cultivated and enriched. The writers who have achieved distinction could hardly even be named in space here available, and any approach to a critical estimate of them would require volumes. One of the earlier but best-known names is that of Jacobus Van Lennep, who is regarded as the leader of the Dutch Romantic school. He was born in Amsterdam on the 24th of March, 1802, and died at Oosterbeek, near Arnheim, August 25, 1868. His father, David, was a professor and a poet; Jacobus studied jurisprudence at Leyden, and afterward practiced law at Amsterdam. For a while he took some part in politics as a member of the second chamber; but his heart was bent on the pursuit of literature, and he gradually abandoned all else for that. His first volume of poems was published when he was but four-and-twenty; and he was the author of several dramas. But his strongest predilections were for romantic novel-writing; and his works in this direction show signs of the influence of Walter Scott, who dominated the romantic field in the first half of this century, and was known in Holland as well as throughout the rest of Europe. "The Foster Son" was published in 1829; the "Rose of Dekama" in 1836; "The Adventures of Claus Sevenstars" in 1865. His complete works, in prose and poetry, fill six-and-thirty volumes. A younger contemporary of Van Lennep was Nikolas Beets, born at Haarlem in 1814; he also was both poet and prose writer, and his "Camara Obscura," published in 1839, is accounted a masterpiece of character and humor, though it was composed when the author was barely twenty-four years of age. Van den Brink was a leading critic of the Romanticists; Hasebrock, author of a volume of essays called "Truth and Dream," has been likened to the English Charles Lamb. Vosmaer is another eminent figure in Dutch literature; he wrote a "Life of Rembrandt" which is a masterpiece of biography. Kuenen, who died but ten years ago, was a biblical critic of European celebrity. But the list of contemporary Dutch writers is long and brilliant, and the time to speak critically of them must be postponed.
Nothing impresses the visitor to Holland more than the vast dikes or dams which restrain the sea from overwhelming the country. They have to be constantly watched and renewed, and to those unused to the idea of dwelling in the presence of such constant peril, the phlegm of the Hollanders is remarkable. M. Havard, who has made a careful study of the country and its people, and who writes of them in a lively style, has left excellent descriptions of these unique works. "We know," he says, "what the Zealand soil is—how uncertain, changing, and mutable; nevertheless, a construction is placed upon it, one hundred and twenty yards long, sixteen yards wide at the entrance, and more than seven and a half yards deep below high water. Add to this, that the enormous basin (one thousand nine hundred square yards) is enclosed within granite walls of extraordinary thickness, formed of solid blocks of stone of tremendous weight. To what depth must the daring workmen who undertook the Cyclopean task have gone in search of a stable standpoint, on which to lay the foundation of such a mass! In what subterranean layer could they have had such confidence, in this country where the earth sinks in, all of a sudden, where islands disappear without leaving a trace—that they ventured to build upon it so mighty an edifice! And observe that not only one dam is thus built; in the two islands of Zuid Beveland and Walcheren a dozen have been constructed. There are two at Wormeldingen. In the presence of these achievements, of problems faced with such courage and solved with such success, one is almost bewildered."
Elsewhere, in speaking of Kampveer, one of the towns which suffered an inundation, he says, "Poor little port! once so famous, lively, populous, and noisy, and now so solitary and still! Traces of its former military and mercantile character are yet to be seen. On the left stands a majestic building with thick walls and few apertures, terminating on the sea in a crenelated round tower; and these elegant houses, with their arched and trefoiled windows, and their decorated gables, on the right, once formed the ancient Scotschhuis. Every detail of the building recalls the great trade in wool done by the city at that period. Far off, at the entrance of the port, stands a tower, the last remnant of the ramparts, formerly a fortification; it is now a tavern. In vain do we look for the companion tower; it has disappeared with the earth on which its foundations stood deep and strong for ages. If, from the summit of the surviving tower, you search for that mysterious town upon the opposite bank, you will look for it in vain where it formerly stood and mirrored its houses and steeples in the limpid waters. Kampen also has been swallowed up forever, leaving no trace that it ever existed in this world. The land that stretches out before us is all affected by that subtle, cancerous disease, the val, whose ravages are so terrible. Two centuries ago this great bay was so filled up with sand that it was expected the two islands would in a short time be reunited and thenceforth form but one. Then, on a sudden, the gulf yawned anew. That huge rent, the Veer Gat, opened once again, more deeply than before; whole towns were buried, and their inhabitants drowned. Then the water retired, the earth rose, shaking off its humid winding sheet, and the old task was resumed; man began once more to dispute the soil with the invading waves. A portion of the land, which seemed to have been forever lost, was regained; but at the cost of what determined strife, after how many battles, with what dire alternations! Within a century, three entire polders on the north coast of Noordbeveland have again vanished, and in the place where they were there flows a stream forty yards deep. In 1873, the polder of Borselen, thirty-one acres in extent, sank into the waters. Each year the terrible val devours some space or other, carrying away the land in strips. The Sophia polder is now attacked by the val. Every possible means is being employed for its defence; no sacrifice is spared. The game is almost up; already one dike has been swallowed, and a portion of the conquered ground has had to be abandoned. The dams are being strengthened in the rear, while every effort is being made to fix the soil so as to prevent the slipping away of the reclaimed land. To effect this, not only are the dams, reinforced and complicated by an inextricable network of stones and interlaced tree-branches; but Zinkstukken are sunk far off in the sea, which by squeezing down the shifting bottom avert those sudden displacements which bring about such disasters. The Zinkstukken—enormous constructions in wicker work—are square rafts, made of reeds and boughs twisted together, sometimes two or three hundred feet long on a side. They are made on the edge of the coast and pushed into the sea; and no sooner is one afloat than it is surrounded by a crowd of barges and boats, big and little, laden with stones and clods of earth. The boats are then attached to the Zinkstuk, and this combined flotilla is so disposed along shore that the current carries it to the place where the Zinkstuk is to be sunk. When the current begins to make itself felt, the raft is loaded by the simple process of heaping the contents of the barges upon the middle of it. The men form in line from the four corners to the centre, and the loads of stone and earth are passed on to the centre of the raft, on which they are flung; then the middle of the Zinkstuk begins to sink gently, and to disappear under the water. As it goes down, the operators withdraw; the stones and clods are then flung upon it from boats. At this stage of the proceedings the Zinkstuk is so heavy that all the vessels, dragged by its weight, lean over, and their masts bend above it. But now the decisive moment approaches, and the foreman, standing on the poop of the largest boat, in the middle of the flotilla, on the side furthest from the shore, awaits the instant when the Zinkstuk shall come into precisely the foreordained position. At that instant he utters a shout and makes a signal; the ropes are cut, the raft plunges downward, and disappears forever, while the boats recover their proper position."
M. Havard merits the space we have given him; for he describes a work the like of which has never been seen elsewhere in the world, any more than have the conditions which necessitated it. But the picturesqueness of the actual scene can hardly be conveyed in words. Under an azure sky we behold outstretched a sparkling sea, its waters shading from green to blue and from yellow to violet, harmoniously blending. In the distance, as though marking the horizon, stretches a long, green strip of land, with the spires of the churches standing out in strong relief against the sky. At our feet is the Zinkstuk, surrounded by its flotilla. The great red sails furled upon the masts, the green poops, the rudders sheathed with burnished copper, the red streaks along the sides of the boats, the colored shirts, brown vests, and blue girdles of the men, touched by the warm rays of the sun, compose a striking picture. On all sides the men are in motion, and five hundred brawny arms are flinging the contents of the boats upon the great raft; a truly Titanic stoning! Projectiles rain from all sides without pause, until the moment comes when the decisive command is to be given. Then silence, absolute and impressive, falls upon the multitude. Suddenly the signal is given; a creaking noise is heard; the fifty boats right themselves at the same instant, and turn toward the point where the great raft which had separated them has just disappeared. They bump against one another, they get entangled, they group themselves in numberless different ways. The swarming men, stooping and raising up, the uplifted arms, the flying stones, the spurting water covering the boats with foam; and in the midst of the confusion the polder-jungens flinging the clods of earth with giant strength and swiftness upon the raft. At certain points the tumult declines; flags are hoisted from the tops of masts, the large sails are shaken out, and aided by the breeze some vessels get loose, sail out, and desert the field of battle. These are they whose task is done, and which are empty. They retire one by one upon the great expanse of water, which, save in one spot, was a little while ago deserted, and is now overspread with the vessels making their various ways toward that green line on the horizon.
This is a conflict not of days, nor of years, nor of generations, but of all time; and what the end will be none can foretell. It is the concrete symbol of the everlasting fight of man with nature, which means civilization. The day may come when, where once Holland was, will be outspread the serene waters of the sea, hiding beneath them the records of the stupendous struggle of so many centuries. Or, perhaps, some mysterious shifting of the ocean bottom may not only lift Holland out of peril, but uncover mighty tracts of land which, in the prehistoric past, belonged to Europe. Meanwhile it is easy to understand that the people who can wage this ceaseless war for their homes and lives, are the sons of those heroes who curbed the might of Spain, and taught the world the lessons of freedom and independence.