ODE JOH. ENSCHEDE We cannot, however, quite believe the following story: Two Dickensians wanting to see so mething of the Dutch country-side hired a tandem, a bicycle built for two, and rode along many dykes, passing one wind-mill after the other. At last they reached higher ground where something like a hill rose in front of them. After terrific labour they re ached the top and the Dickensian in front, wiping his brow, said: „This was a hundred times as steep as I thought it would be." ,,It certainly was", said the other, „and if I had not put on the brake, we might have slid downhill". Did you know that during tulip-time in Holland in 1945 there were no flo wers? Dutchmen had looked at the bulbs with more covetous eyes than they ever did at the flowers: for the bulbs dressed with for instance a curry- sauce were a welcome change in the monotonous bill fo fare of sugar-beets and rye boiled in water. We shall give you the recipe for tuliphash: take two pounds of tulips-bulbs and leave them in water during the night. If no tulips have sprouted, they may be hyacinths which are more poisonous but this should be risked and the bulbs now must be peeled and put on softly boiling water with salt for an hour, then stew them with love for butter. This is for slimming. In the centre of the newly won, treeless and desolate dry land of the former Zuydersea I came across a small service station bearing a short notice, that read: „Don't ask us for in formation; if we knew anything we wouldn't be here." On the Continent, if people are waiting at a bus-stop they loiter around in a seemingly vague fashion. When the bus arrives they make a dash for it; most of them leave by the bus and a lucky minority is taken away by an elegant ambulance-car. An Englishman, even is he is alone, forms an orderly queue of one. Many English families spend lovely evenings at home queueing up for a few hours, and the parents are very sad when the children leave them and queue up for going to bed. On the Continent there is one topic which should be avoided: the weather. In England, if you do not repeat the phrase „Lovely day isn't it?" at least two hundred times a day, you are considered a bit dull. on seeing the printing of If ENSCHEDE had printed these our best-loved books and if the characters could then observe this print, its mellow clarity would soften hearts of flint, its sweet-toned splendour would redeem the toughest crooks. Sir Mulberry Hawk would try to earn his keep by dint of hard and honest work; Scrooge would not need the hint of sundry ghosts to mend his life; a tender glint in Sally Brass's eyes would glorify her looks. Quilp's face would shine with human kindness and no fears would shake the boys committed to the care of Squeers; Uriah Heep and Pecksniff suddenly would be filled with remorse. On second thoughts, though, it appears we should be glad this magic print they cannot see, for we would also lose Miss Fanny Squeers's leers. An American from Boston visited the bulb- fields round Haarlem. Standing in a field and, admiring the flowers, he happened to hear his host remark that he was at that moment some thirty feet below the level of the North Sea. He gazed blankly through his rimless spectacles; then with a yelp of panic he packed up and made hot-foot for the nearest country he could find that was surrounded by honest-to-God cliffs. The trouble with tea is that originally it was quite a good drink. So a group of the most emi nent British scientists put their heads together to find a way of spoiling it. Their labour bore fruit. They suggested that if you do not drink it clear, or with lemon or rum and sugar, but pour a few drops of cold milk into it, and no sugar at all, the desired object is achieved. It suddenly became the national drink of Great Britain and Ireland still retaining, indeed usurping, the high-sounding title of tea. An Amsterdam skipper, noticing an Eng lishman diving and swimming in the Amstel most perfectly, declared: „Of course, all those foreigners can swim. They've got to wash continually, because they are- so dirty". The Germans live in Germany; The Romans live in Rome; The Turkeys live in Turkey; But the English live at home. Advice to Dutch visitors in England: If you go out for a walk with a friend, don't say a word for hours; if you go out for a walk with your dog, keep chatting to him. When continental people say England, they sometimes mean Great Britain, sometimes the United Kingdom, sometimes the British Isles but never England, I have heard in a theatre in Haarlem an English lady whisper in very audible tones, when thrilled by the leading tenor: „Wouldn't you think he is English, my dear?"

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The Dutch Dickensian | 1959 | | pagina 2