Mynheer of the great castle near it, with
three hundred and sixty-five windows, which
is standing to this day! The wicked lady
insulted a poor wandering woman, with
twins in her arms; and the poor wandering
woman prayed that she might be punished
in this way. So, the Mynheer sees, it must
have been a judgment of Heaven!"

"No doubt," I say.

But lo! Zaandam is approaching. There is
a long straggling river opening up before us,
with sentinel windmills doing duty along the
banks. At first, these scouts seem posted at
intervals; gradually, they thicken into
numbers perfectly confounding, crowding on us
alarmingly, and throwing up their arms
wildly, as it were to give notice of our
coming. Presently, terrible confusion in the
windmill camp: the main body seems gathering
around us on both banks. Bewildering
tossing of arms! Everything seems going
round. There is a kaleidoscope panorama
passing us all the while, that seems to revolve
with all the primary colours. Red houses
going by, yellow houses going by, green
houses going by. First, a lonely structure or
so standing by itself; then, two or three
together; then clustered. Red, green, yellow;
green, yellow, red!—all turning and
coming up, kaleidoscope fashion. Windmills
thickening into huge disorderly mob;
particoloured houses thickening; little wooden
landing-stages on piles thickening; little
creeks and wooden docks thickening.
Captain roaring all manner of directions,
contradicting himself, blaspheming himself and
others. Smallweeds looking nervously to
their packed basket. View now utterly
blocked out with windmills; hearing assailed
with sad groaning and melancholy mad
creaking of their turning axles. More
primary colours; more windmills; more shouting;
more blaspheming; and we come alongside
the little pier where we are to be set
ashore at Zaandam, Saardam, or whatever
other name you may please to give the place.

Not so much to be seen here, after all,
saving the parti-colours, and the windmills,
and certain importunate worrying curs
that will show the stranger all things that
are to be shown—or, at least, show him
that there is nothing to be shown. A
yelping crew of all ages and degree—
plagues of this country, such as at La Haye,
Leiden, and every noteworthy spot, fasten
their teeth in the stranger just set down,
and hang upon him with canine tenacity;
underbidding each other in his own tongue,
which never seems so hateful to him as
them. Following the unhappy man—but
too plainly marked out as Briton by his
courier's bag, and garments on his arm,
and umbrella—following him in a long
disorderly rout, they attend on him for half-
a-mile or more, laughing, chattering, and
bidding. Some audaciously venturing to lay
hands on the garment or umbrella. This is
their song: " Show you, sair, whole town,
King's Palace, de pictures, all for one
guilder! " Hoarse voice mutters privately
on the other side, as though a sham smuggler
offering cigars: " Take you see everything
King Palace, Town Hall, for one half-guilder."
Little boy, later on, will do it all for
one quarter-guilder. Nuisance that cries
aloud to Heaven! No friendly interference
of Schout, of policeman, who would see you
condemned eternally first, before interfering
with the rights and profits of his brethren.
Thus, too, at this small Zaandam town—in a
smaller way. Ticket-of-leave countenances
in great force round me, muttering the old
song confidentially. I lay my finger on a
Pentonviile forçat, desiring him to do the
show-work, whatever it may be.

"And now," I ask, " what is there so much
to be seen, after all?"

Pentonviile lifts his hands high over his
head, and answers: " Great things! O, great
things!"

"Good!" I say. "What beyond the
house and the windmills?"

My Pentonville's countenance falls. He is
visibly discomposed. The bread is taken from
out of his mouth.

"O, yes," he says; " there are the great
windmills in the town for grinding of
flour, of rape-seed, of artists' colours, of oil,
of——"

"I know about the windmills," I interrupt
impatiently. " I have seen enough of them
already. But what besides them?"

My ticket-of-leave man's face brightens.
"O, great things!" he says. " The great
windmills outside the town, all along the
river-banks, for grinding of flour, rape-seed,
artists' colours, of——"

"That will do, friend," I say to him, seeing
but too plainly that they hold to their
windmills here, as to their chief speciality. " Take
me to the house."

He leads the way with alacrity, and it
must indeed be confessed that this super-
abundance of windmills is a matter that may
justly excite infinite surprise. I never could
so much as approximate to their number:
some natives rating them at four or five
hundred, others, with pardonable vanity,
elevating them to a thousand or twelve
hundred. Not built, however, on the
substantial principles common to such structures
in our own country, which seem of the
lighthouse pattern, fit to brave storms and waves;
but from the scooped shelving sides, well
plastered over, would appear of strong
timber framework, of a strange mud tint;
some, as if that material had been used for
its decoration; of a dull red others; of a
bright red many more. But the numbers—
the bewildering numbers! the eternal whirl
and gyration! so many Catherine-wheels
flying round eternally—so many long arms
swooping down to the beholder with intent
to catch in his garments and toss him high.