Bab Bab 24 · Leyden

at the time. He says it was terrible.

The explosion occurred just at noon and it was like a volcano. All this

part of the town was on fire in an instant, buildings tumbling down and

men, women, and children groaning under the ruins. The king himself came

to the city and acted nobly, Father says, staying out in the streets all

night, encouraging the survivors in their efforts to arrest the fire and

rescue as many as possible from under the heaps of stone and rubbish.

Through his means a collection for the benefit of the sufferers was

raised throughout the kingdom, besides a hundred thousand guilders paid

out of the treasury. Father was only nineteen years old then. It was

in 1807, I believe, but he remembers it perfectly. A friend of his,

Professor Luzac, was among the killed. They have a tablet erected to his

memory, in Saint Peter’s Church, farther on--the queerest thing you ever

saw, with an image of the professor carved upon it, representing him

just as he looked when he was found after the explosion.”

“What a strange idea! Isn’t Boerhaave’s monument in Saint Peter’s also?”

“I cannot remember. Perhaps Peter knows.”

The captain delighted Ben by saying that the monument was there and that

he thought they might be able to see it during the day.

“Lambert,” continued Peter, “ask Ben if he saw Van der Werf’s portrait

at the town hall last night?”

“No,” said Lambert, “I can answer for him. It was too late to go in. I

say, boys, it is really wonderful how much Ben knows. Why, he has told

me a volume of Dutch history already. I’ll wager he has the siege of

Leyden at his tongue’s end.”

“His tongue must burn, then,” interposed Ludwig, “for if Bilderdyk’s

account is true, it was a pretty hot affair.”

Ben was looking at them with an inquiring smile.

“We are speaking of the siege of Leyden,” explained Lambert.

“Oh, yes,” said Ben, eagerly, “I had forgotten all about it. This was

the very place. Let’s give old Van der Werf three cheers. Hur--”

Van Mounen uttered a hasty “Hush!” and explained that, patriotic as the

Dutch were, the police would soon have something to say if a party of

boys cheered in the street at midday.

“What? Not cheer Van der Werf?” cried Ben, indignantly. “One of the

greatest chaps in history? Only think! Didn’t he hold out against

those murderous Spaniards for months and months? There was the town,

surrounded on all sides by the enemy; great black forts sending fire

and death into the very heart of the city--but no surrender! Every man

a hero--women and children, too, brave and fierce as lions, provisions

giving out, the very grass from between the paving stones gone--till

people were glad to eat horses and cats and dogs and rats. Then came the

plague--hundreds dying in the streets--but no surrender! Then when they

could bear no more, when the people, brave as they were, crowded about

Van der Werf in the public square begging him to give up, what did the

noble old burgomaster say? ‘I have sworn to defend this city, and with

God’s help, I MEAN TO DO IT! If my body can satisfy your hunger, take

it, and divide it among you, but expect no surrender so long as I am

alive.’ Hurrah! hur--”

Ben was getting uproarious; Lambert playfully clapped his hand over his

friend’s mouth. The result was one of those quick India-rubber scuffles

fearful to behold but delightful to human nature in its polliwog state.

“Vat wash te matter, Pen?” asked Jacob, hurrying forward.

“Oh! nothing at all,” panted Ben, “except that Van Mounen was afraid of

starting an English riot in this orderly town. He stopped my cheering

for old Van der--”

“Ya! ya--it ish no goot to sheer--to make te noise for dat. You vill

shee old Van der Does’s likeness mit te Stadhuis.”

“See old Van der Does? I thought it was Van der Werf’s picture they had

there.”

“Ya,” responded Jacob, “Van der Werf--vell, vot of it! Both ish just ash

goot--”

“Yes, Van der Does was a noble old Dutchman, but he was not Van der

Werf. I know he defended the city like a brick, and--”

“Now vot for you shay dat, Penchamin? He no defend te city mit breek,

he fight like goot soltyer mit his guns. You like make te fun mit

effrysinks Tutch.”

“No! No! No! I said he defended the city LIKE a brick. That is very high

praise, I would have you understand. We English call even the Duke of

Wellington a brick.”

Jacob looked puzzled, but his indignation was already on the ebb.

“Vell, it ish no matter. I no tink, before, soltyer mean breek, but it

ish no matter.”

Ben laughed good-naturedly, and seeing that his cousin was tired of

talking in English, he turned to his friend of the two languages.

“Van Mounen, they say the very carrier pigeons that brought news of

relief to the besieged city are somewhere here in Leyden. I really

should like to see them. Just think of it! At the very height of the

trouble, if the wind didn’t turn and blow in the waters, and drown

hundreds of Spaniards and enable the Dutch boats to sail in right over

the land with men and provisions to the very gates of the city. The

pigeons, you know, did great service, in bearing letters to and fro. I

have read somewhere that they were reverently cared for from that day,

and when they died, they were stuffed and placed for safekeeping in the

town hall. We must be sure to have a look at them.”

Van Mounen laughed. “On that principle, Ben, I suppose when you go to

Rome you’ll expect to see the identical goose who saved the capitol. But

it will be easy enough to see the pigeons. They are in the same building

with Van der Werf’s portrait. Which was the greater defense, Ben, the

siege of Leyden or the siege of Haarlem?”

“Well,” replied Ben thoughtfully, “Van der Werf is one of my heroes. We

all have our historical pets, you know, but I really think the siege

of Haarlem brought out a braver, more heroic resistance even, than the

Leyden one; besides, they set the Leyden sufferers an example of courage

and fortitude, for their turn came first.”

“I don’t know much about the Haarlem siege,” said Lambert, “except that

it was in 1573. Who beat?”

“The Spaniards,” said Ben. “The Dutch had stood out for months. Not a

man would yield nor a woman, either, for that matter. They shouldered

arms and fought gallantly beside their husbands and fathers. Three

hundred of them did duty under Kanau Hesselaer, a great woman, and brave

as Joan of Arc. All this time the city was surrounded by the Spaniards

under Frederic of Toledo, son of that beauty, the Duke of Alva. Cut off

from all possible help from without, there seemed to be no hope for the

inhabitants, but they shouted defiance over the city walls. They even

threw bread into the enemy’s camps to show that they were not afraid of

starvation. Up to the last they held out bravely, waiting for the help

that never could come--growing bolder and bolder until their provisions

were exhausted. Then it was terrible. In time, hundreds of famished

creatures fell dead in the streets, and the living had scarcely strength

to bury them. At last they made the desperate resolution that, rather

than perish by lingering torture, the strongest would form a square,

placing the weakest in the center, and rush in a body to their death,

with the faint chance of being able to fight their way through the

enemy. The Spaniards received a hint of this, and believing that there

was nothing the Dutch would not dare to do, they concluded to offer

terms.”

“High time, I should think.”

“Yes, with falsehood and treachery they soon obtained an entrance into

the city, promising protection and forgiveness to all except those whom

the citizens themselves would acknowledge as deserving of death.”

“You don’t say so!” said Lambert, quite interested. “That ended the

business, I suppose.”

“Not a bit of it,” returned en, “for the Duke of Alva had already given

his son orders to show mercy to none.”

“Ah! That was where the great Haarlem massacre came in. I remember now.

You can’t wonder that the Hollanders dislike Spain when you read of the

way they were butchered by Alva and his hosts, though I admit that our

side sometimes retaliated terribly. But as I have told you before,

I have a very indistinct idea of historical matters. Everything is

confusion--from the flood to the battle of Waterloo. One thing is plain,

however, the Duke of Alva was about the worst specimen of a man that

ever lived.”

“That gives only a faint idea of him,” said Ben, “but I hate to think

of such a wretch. What if he HAD brains and military skill, and all that

sort of thing! Give me such men as Van der Werf, and--What now?”

“Why,” said Van Mounen, who was looking up and down the street in a

bewildered way. “We’ve walked right past the museum, and I don’t see the

boys. Let us go back.”

CHAPTER 24. Leyden

The boys met at the museum and were soon engaged in examining its

extensive collection of curiosities, receiving a new insight into

Egyptian life, ancient and modern. Ben and Lambert had often visited the

British Museum, but that did not prevent them from being surprised at

the richness of the Leyden collection. There were household utensils,

wearing apparel, weapons, musical instruments, sarcophagi, and mummies

of men, women, and cats, ibexes, and other creatures. They saw a massive

gold armlet that had been worn by an Egyptian king at a time when some

of these same mummies, perhaps, were nimbly treading the streets of

Thebes; and jewels and trinkets such as Pharaoh’s daughter wore, and the

children of Israel borrowed when they departed out of Egypt.

There were other interesting relics, from Rome and Greece, and some

curious Roman pottery which had been discovered in digging near The

Hague--relics of the days when the countrymen of Julius Caesar had

settled there. Where have they not settled? I for one would hardly be

astonished if relics of the ancient Romans should someday be found deep

under the grass growing around the Bunker Hill monument.

When the boys left this museum, they went to another and saw a wonderful

collection of fossil animals, skeletons, birds, minerals, precious

stones, and other natural specimens, but as they were not learned men,

they could only walk about and stare, enjoy the little knowledge of

natural history they possessed, and wish with all their hearts they

had acquired more. Even the skeleton of the mouse puzzled Jacob. What

wonder? He was not used to seeing the cat-fearing little creatures

running about in their bones--and how could he ever have imagined their

necks to be so queer?

Besides the Museum of Natural History, there was Saint Peter’s Church

to be visited, containing Professor Luzac’s memorial, and Boerhaave’s

monument of white and black marble, with its urn and carved symbols of

the four ages of life, and its medallion of Boerhaave, adorned with his

favorite motto, Simplex sigillum veri. They also obtained admittance to

a tea garden, which in summer was a favorite resort of the citizens and,

passing naked oaks and fruit trees, ascended to a high mound which stood

in the center. This was the site of a round tower now in ruins, said by

some to have been built by Hengist the Anglo-Saxon king, and by others

to have been the castle of one of the ancient counts of Holland.

As the boys walked about on the top of its stone wall, they could get

but a poor view of the surrounding city. The tower stood higher when,

more than two centuries ago, the inhabitants of beleaguered Leyden

shouted to the watcher on its top their wild, despairing cries, “Is

there any help? Are the waters rising? What do you see?”

And for months he could only answer, “No help. I see around us nothing

but the enemy.”

Ben pushed these thoughts away and, resolutely looking down into the

bare tea garden, filled it in imagination with gay summer groups. He

tried to forget old battle clouds, and picture only curling wreaths of

tobacco smoke rising from among men, women, and children enjoying their

tea and coffee in the open air. But a tragedy came in spite of him.

Poot was bending over the edge of the high wall. It would be just like

him to grow dizzy and tumble off. Ben turned impatiently away. If the

fellow, with his weak head, knew no better than to be venturesome, why,

let him tumble. Horror! What mean that heavy, crashing sound?

Ben could not stir. He could only gasp. “Jacob!”

“Jacob!” cried another startled voice and another. Ready to faint, Ben

managed to turn his head. He saw a crowd of boys on the edge of the wall

opposite, but Jacob was not there!

“Good heavens!” he cried, springing forward, “where is my cousin?”

The crowd parted. It was only four boys, after all. There sat Jacob in

their midst, holding his sides and laughing heartily.

“Did I frighten you all?” he said in his native Dutch. “Well, I will

tell you how it was. There was a big stone lying on the wall and I put

my--my foot out just to push it a little, you see, and the first thing I

knew, down went the stone all the way to the bottom and left me sitting

here on top with both my feet in the air. If I had not thrown myself

back at that moment, I certainly should have rolled over after the

stone. Well, it is no matter. Help me up, boys.”

“You’re hurt!” said Ben, seeing a shade of seriousness pass over his

cousin’s face as they lifted him to his feet.

Jacob tried to laugh again. “Oh, no--I feels a little hurt ven I stant

up, but it ish no matter.”

The monument to Van der Werf in the Hooglandsche Kerk was not accessible

that day, but the boys spent a few pleasant moments in the Stadhuis

or town hall, a long irregular structure somewhat in the Gothic style,

uncouth in architecture but picturesque from age. Its little steeple,

tuneful with bells, seemed to have been borrowed from some other

building and hastily clapped on as a finishing touch.

Ascending the grand staircase, the boys soon found themselves in a

rather gloomy apartment, containing the masterpiece of Lucas van Leyden,

or Hugens, a Dutch artist born three hundred and seventy years ago, who

painted well when he was ten years of age and became distinguished

in art when only fifteen. This picture, called the Last Judgment,

considering the remote age in which it was painted, is truly a

remarkable production. The boys, however, were less interested in

tracing out the merits of the work than they were in the fact of its

being a triptych--that is, painted on three divisions, the two outer

ones swung on hinges so as to close, when required, over the main

portion.

The historical pictures of Harel de Moor and other famous Dutch artists

interested them for a while, and Ben had to be almost pulled away from

the dingy old portrait of Van der Werf.

The town hall, as well as the Egyptian Museum, is on the Breedstraat,

the longest and finest street in Leyden. It has no canal running

through it, and the houses, painted in every variety of color, have a

picturesque effect as they stand with their gable ends to the street;

some are very tall with half their height in their step-like roofs;

others crouch before the public edifices and churches. Being clean,

spacious, well-shaded, and adorned with many elegant mansions, it

compares favorably with the finery portions of Amsterdam. It is kept

scrupulously neat. Many of the gutters are covered with boards that open

like trapdoors, and it is supplied with pumps surmounted with shining

brass ornaments kept scoured and bright at the public cost. The city

is intersected by numerous water roads formed by the river Rhine, there

grown sluggish, fatigued by its long travel, but more than one hundred

and fifty stone bridges reunite the dissevered streets. The same

world-renowned river, degraded from the beautiful, free-flowing Rhine,

serves as a moat from the rampart that surrounds Leyden and is crossed

by drawbridges at the imposing gateways that give access to the city.

Fine broad promenades, shaded by noble trees, border the canals and add

to the retired appearance of the houses behind, heightening the effect

of scholastic seclusion that seems to pervade the place.

Ben, as he scanned the buildings on the Rapenburg Canal, was somewhat

disappointed in the appearance of the great University of Leyden. But

when he recalled its history--how, attended with all the pomp of a grand

civic display, it had been founded by the Prince of Orange as a tribute

to the citizens for the bravery displayed during the siege; when he

remembered the great men in religion, learning, and science who had once

studied there and thought of the hundreds of students now sharing the

benefits of its classes and its valuable scientific museums--he was

quite willing to forego architectural beauty, though he could not

help feeling that no amount of it could have been misplaced on such an

institution.

Peter and Jacob regarded the building with an even deeper, more

practical interest, for they were to enter it as students in the course

of a few months.

“Poor Don Quixote would have run a hopeless tilt in this part of

the world,” said Ben after Lambert had been pointing out some of the

oddities and beauties of the suburbs. “It is all windmills. You remember

his terrific contest with one, I suppose.”

“No,” said Lambert bluntly.

“Well, I don’t, either, that is, not definitely. But there was something

of that kind in his adventures, and if there wasn’t, there should have

been. Look at them, how frantically they whirl their great arms--just

the thing to excite the crazy knight to mortal combat. It bewilders one

to look at them. Help me to count all those we can see, Van Mounen.

I want a big item for my notebook.” And after a careful reckoning,

superintended by all the party, Master Ben wrote in pencil, “Saw, Dec.,

184--, ninety-eight windmills within full view of Leyden.”

He would have been glad to visit the old brick mill in which the painter

Rembrandt was born, but he abandoned the project upon learning that it

would take them out of their way. Few boys as hungry as Ben was by this

time would hesitate long between Rembrandt’s home a mile off and tiffin

close by. Ben chose the latter.

After tiffin, they rested awhile, and then took another, which, for

form’s sake, they called dinner. After dinner the boys sat warming

themselves at the inn; all but Peter, who occupied the time in another

fruitless search for Dr. Boekman.

This over, the party once more prepared for skating. They were thirteen

miles from The Hague and not as fresh as when they had left Broek early

on the previous day, but they were in good spirits and the ice was

excellent.