Part 1
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Transcriber’s note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Changes made are noted at the end of the book.
A JAYHAWKER IN EUROPE
by
W. Y. MORGAN
Author of “A Journey of a Jayhawker”
Monotyped and Printed by Crane & Company Topeka 1911
Copyright 1911, by Crane & Company
Preface
These letters were printed in the Hutchinson _Daily News_ during the summer of 1911. There was no ulterior motive, no lofty purpose, just the reporter’s idea of telling what he saw.
They are now put in book form without revision or editing, because the writer would probably make them worse if he tried to make them better.
W. Y. MORGAN.
HUTCHINSON, KANSAS, November 1, 1911.
To the Jayhawkers
who stay at home and take their European trips in their minds and in the books, this volume is respectfully dedicated by one of the gadders
Table of Contents
_Page_
NEW YORK IN THE HOT TIME, 1
BREAKING AWAY, 7
ON THE POTSDAM, 12
THE LIONS OF THE SHIP, 18
OCEAN CURRENTS, 25
THE DUTCH FOLKS, 30
IN OLD DORDRECHT, 37
THE DUTCHESSES, 44
THE PILGRIMS’ START, 50
AMSTERDAM, AND OTHERS, 56
CHEESES AND BULBSES, 63
HISTORIC LEYDEN, 72
THE DUTCH CAPITAL, 80
“THE DUTCH COMPANY,” 88
THE GREAT RIVER, 96
ALONG THE RHINE, 104
IN GERMAN TOWNS, 112
ARRIVING IN PARIS, 120
THE FRENCH CHARACTER, 127
THE LATIN QUARTER, 135
THE BOULEVARDS OF PARIS, 144
SOME FRENCH WAYS, 154
IN DOVER TOWN, 162
OLD CANTERBURY TODAY, 169
THE ENGLISH STRIKE, 178
ENGLISHMAN THE GREAT, 187
THE NORTH OF IRELAND, 198
SCOTLAND AND THE SCOTCH, 211
THE LAND OF BURNS, 220
THE JOURNEY’S END. 228
Table of Illustrations
The scrubbing-brush the national emblem of Holland _Facing page_ 41
No place for a man from Kansas " 74
The poet Byron building castles " 100
The handsome knight she met in Elmdale Park " 111
The plain Quadrille at the Moulin Rouge " 148
Seeing London from the old English bus " 188
Introducing a joke to our British cousins " 234
A Jayhawker _in_ Europe
New York in the Hot Time
NEW YORK, July 10, 1911.
The last day on American soil before starting on a trip to other lands should be marked with a proper spirit of seriousness, and I would certainly live up to the propriety of the occasion if it were not for two things,--the baggage and the weather. But how can a man heave a sigh of regret at departing from home, when he is chasing over Jersey City and Hoboken after a stray trunk, and the thermometer is breaking records for highness and the barometer for humidity? I have known some tolerably warm zephyrs from the south which were excitedly called “hot winds,” but they were balmy and pleasant to the touch in comparison with the New York hot wave which wilts collar, shirt and backbone into one mass. The prospect of tomorrow being out on the big water with a sea breeze and a northeast course does not seem bad, even if you are leaving the Stars and Stripes and home and friends. There is nothing like hot, humid weather to destroy patriotism, love, affection, and common civility. I speak in mild terms, but I have returned from Hoboken, the station just the other side of the place whose existence is denied by the Universalists. This is the place the ship starts from, and not from New York, as it is advertised to do.
* * * * *
Speaking of weather reminds me that the West is far ahead of New York in the emancipation of men. The custom here is for men to wear coats regardless of the temperature, whereas in the more intelligent West a man is considered dressed up in the evening if he takes off his gallusses along with his coat. Last night we went to a “roof garden” and expected that it would be a jolly Bohemian affair, but every man sat with his coat on and perspired until he couldn’t tell whether the young ladies of the stage were kicking high or not, and worse than that, he did not care.
I have been again impressed with the fact that there are no flies in New York City. There are no screens on the windows, not even of the dining-rooms, and yet I have not seen a fly. I wish Dr. Crumbine would tell us why it is that flies swarm out in Kansas and leave without a friendly visit such a rich pasture-ground as they would find on the millions of humans on Manhattan island. If I were a fly I would leave the swatters and the hostile board of health of Kansas, and take the limited train for New York and one perpetual picnic for myself and family.
* * * * *
This afternoon I went to the ball game, of course. Some people would have gone to the art exhibit or the beautiful public library. But New York and Chicago were to play and Matthewson was to pitch, and the call of duty prevailed over the artistic yearnings which would have taken me elsewhere. Coming home from the game I had an idea--which is a dangerous thing to do in hot weather. There has been a good deal of talk in the newspapers about the Republicans not agreeing on a candidate, and the question as to whether Taft can be reëlected or not is being vigorously debated. Put ’em all out and nominate Christy Matthewson. This would insure the electoral vote of New York, for if the Republicans put “Matty” on the ticket the election returns would be so many millions for Matthewson and perhaps a few scattering.
There were about as many errors and boneheads in the game between Chicago and New York as there would be in a Kansas State League game, and more than would come to pass in the match between the barbers and the laundrymen of Hutchinson. The players did not indulge in that brilliant repartee with the umpire which is a feature of the Kansas circuit, and the audience, while expressing its opinion of the judgments, had no such wealth of phrases as pours over the boxes from the grandstand at home. The language used could have come from the ministerial alliance, and sometimes the game seemed more like a moving-picture show than a real live game of baseball. Chicago won, 3 to 2 in ten innings, and I feel that my European trip is a decided success so far.
This morning I took a little walk down Wall street and saw the place in which the Great Red Dragon lives. These New York bankers and brokers are not so dangerous as I have been led to believe by reading some of the speeches in Congress. There was no blood around the Standard Oil building, and the office of J. Pierpont was filled with men who looked as uncomfortable and unhappy as I felt with the heat. Sometimes I think the men of Wall street, New York, are just like the men at home,--getting all they can under the rules of the game and only missing the bases when the umpire looks the other way. The few with whom I talked were really concerned about the crops and the welfare of the people of Kansas, perhaps because they have some of their money invested in our State, and I got the idea that Wall street and all it represents is interested in the prosperity of the country and knows that hard times anywhere mean corresponding trouble for some of them in New York.
* * * * *
New York is a growing city. In many respects it is like Hutchinson. The street paving is full of holes and new buildings are going up in every direction. Every few months “the highest skyscraper” is erected, and now one is being constructed that will have fifty or sixty stories--it doesn’t matter which. The buildings are faced with brick or stone, but really built of iron. I saw one today on which the bricklaying had been begun at the seventh story and was proceeding in both directions. That was the interesting feature of the building to me. That and the absence of flies and the baseball game are the general results of my efforts today to see something of the greatest city in America.
We sail tomorrow morning. Then it will be ten days on the ship for us. One thing about an ocean voyage is reasonably sure: If you don’t like it you can’t get off and walk. A really attractive feature is that there is no dust and you don’t watch the clouds and wish it would rain so you will not have to water the lawn.
Breaking Away
STEAMSHIP POTSDAM, July 11.
The sailing of an ocean steamer is always a scene of delightful confusion and excitement. Thousands of people throng the pier and the ship, saying goodbyes to the hundreds who are about to leave. The journey across the ocean, though no longer a matter of danger or hardship, is yet enough of an event to start the emotions and make the emoters forget everything but the watery way and the long absence.
The crowd is anxious, expectant, sad, and unrestrained. Men who rarely show personal feeling look with glistening eyes on the friends to be left behind. Women, who are always seeing disaster to their loved ones, strive with pats, caresses and fond phrases to say the consoling words or to express the terror in their hearts. The timid girl, off for a year’s study, wishes she had not been so venturesome. The father rubs his eyes and talks loudly about the baggage. The mother clings to her son’s arm and whispers to him how she will pray for him every night, and hopes he will change his underclothes when the days are cool. Young folks hold hands and tell each other of the constant remembrance that they will have. Big bouquets of flowers are brought on by stewards, the trunks go sliding up the plank and into the ship, the officers strut up and down, conscious of the admiring glances of the curious, orders are shouted, sailors go about tying and untying ropes, the rich family parades on with servants and boxes, the whistle blows for the visitors to leave, and the final goodbyes and “write me” and “lock the back door” and “tell Aunt Mary” and such phrases fill the air while handkerchiefs alternately wipe and wave.
Slowly the big boat backs into the stream amid a fog of cheers and sobs, then goes ahead down the harbor, past the pier still alive with fluttering handkerchiefs, the voices no longer to be heard, and the passengers feel that sinking of the heart that comes from the knowledge of the separation by time and distance coming to them for weeks and months, perhaps forever. Sorrowfully they strain for a last look at the crowd, now too far away to distinguish the wanted face, and then they turn around, look at their watches, and wonder how long it will be before lunch. Of course the Dutch band played the Star-Spangled Banner as the boat trembled and started; of course the last passenger arrived just a minute late and was prevented from making an effort to jump the twenty feet of water which then separated the ship from the pier. Of course the boys sold American flags and souvenir post cards. Of course the tourists wondered if they would be seasick and their friends rather hoped they would be, though they did not say so. The steamboats whistled salutes, and the band changed its tune to a Dutch version of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” and with flags flying the Potsdam moved past the big skyscrapers, past the Battery, alongside the Statue of Liberty, and out toward the Atlantic like a swan in Riverside Park. The voyage has begun. The traveler has to look after his baggage, which is miraculously on board, find his deck chairs and his dining-room seats, and between times rush out occasionally to get one more glimpse of the New Jersey coast, which is never very pretty except when you are homeward bound, when even Oklahoma would look good.
* * * * *
This boat, the Potsdam, of the Holland-American line, is not one of the big and magnificent floating hotels which take travelers across the Atlantic so rapidly that they do not get acquainted with each other and in such style that they think they are at a summer resort. But it is a good-sized, easy-sailing, slow-going ship that will take about ten days across and has every comfort which the Dutch can think of, and they are long on having things comfortable. It has a reputation for steadiness and good meals which makes it popular with people who have traveled the Atlantic and who enjoy the ocean voyage as the best part of a trip abroad. It lands at Rotterdam, one of the best ports of Europe and right in the center of the most interesting part of the Old World.
* * * * *
The pilot left us at Sandy Hook, and now the Potsdam is sailing right out into the big water. A cool breeze has taken the place of the hot air of New York. The ocean is smooth; there is neither roll nor heave to the ship. Everybody is congratulating himself that this is to be a smooth voyage. A substantial luncheon is still staying where it belongs, and we are looking over the other passengers and being looked over by them. There is no chance to get off and go back if we wanted to do so. And we don’t want to--not yet.
On the Potsdam
STEAMSHIP POTSDAM, July 14.
The daily life on shipboard might be considered monotonous if one were being paid for it, but under the present circumstances and surroundings the time goes rapidly. Everybody has noticed that the things he is obliged to do are dull and uninteresting. Any ordinary American would demand about $10 a day for fastening himself in a boat and remaining there for ten days. He would get tired of the society, sick of the meals and sore on his job. But call it “fun” and he pays $10 a day for the pleasure of the ride. The Potsdam is 560 feet long, sixty-two feet wide, and seven stories high,--four above the water-line and three below. On this trip its first-class accommodations are filled, about 260 people; but the second class is not crowded, and less than a hundred steerage passengers occupy that part of the ship which often carries 2,100 people. The steerage is crowded on the trip to America, filled with men and women who are leaving home and fatherland in order to do better for themselves and their children. They go back in later years, for a visit, but they do not travel in the steerage. They carry little American flags and scatter thoughts of freedom and free men in the older lands.
* * * * *
This is a Dutch ship and the language of the officers and crew is Dutch. While a few of them speak some English and most of them know a little, the general effect is that of getting into an entirely foreign environment. The Dutch language is a peculiar blend. It seems to be partly derived from the German, partly from the English, and partly from the Choctaw. The pronunciation is difficult because it is unlike the German, the English or the Latin tongues. An ordinary word spelled out looks like a freight train of box cars with several cabooses. As one of my Dutch fellow-passengers said when he was instructing me how to pronounce the name of the capital of Holland, “Don’t try to say it; sneeze it.” A great deal of interest is added to the smallest bits of conversation by the doubt as to whether the Dutch speaker is telling you that it is dinner-time or whether he has swallowed his store teeth.
Which reminds me of a little story Ben Nusbaum told me of the Dutchman who came into the Oxford café, sat up to the counter and in proper Dutch etiquette greeted the waiter with the salutation, “Wie gehts?” Turning toward the kitchen the waiter sang out, “wheat cakes!” “Nein! nein!” shouted the Dutchman. “Nine,” said the waiter, scornfully; “you’ll be dam lucky if you get three!”
* * * * *
The principal occupation on board a Dutch ship is eating, and the next most important is drinking. The eats begin with a hearty breakfast from 8 to 10 o’clock. At 11 o’clock, beef soup, sandwiches and crackers. At 12:30, an elaborate luncheon. At 4 o’clock, afternoon tea, with sandwiches and fancy cakes. At 7 o’clock, a great dinner. At 9 o’clock, coffee, sandwiches, etc. Any time between these meals you can get something to eat, anything from beef to buns, and the table in the smoking-room is always loaded with cheese, sausage, ham, cakes and all the little knick-knacks that tempt you to take one as you go by. And yet there is surprise that some people are seasick.
You can get anything you want to drink except water, which is scarce, and apparently only used for scrubbing and bathing. Of course the steward will find you a little water, if you are from Kansas, but he thinks you are sick, wants to add a hot-water bag, and suggests that the ship doctor might help you some.
* * * * *
I have spoken before of the Dutch band. It is a good one, and loves to play. The first concert is at 10 in the morning. There is orchestra music during luncheon and dinner, and band concerts afternoon and evening. I like a German band, or a Dutch band, so long as it sticks to its proper répertoire. But there never was a German band that could play “My Old Kentucky Home” and “Swanee River,” and every German band persists in doing so in honor of the Americans. I suppose this desire to do something you can’t do is not confined to Dutch musicians. I know a man who can whistle like a bird, but he insists that he is a violinist, and plays second fiddle. I know a singer with a really great voice who persists in the theory that he can recite, which he can’t. Therefore he is a great bore, and nobody thinks he can even sing. Nearly all of us are afflicted some along this line, and the Dutch band on the Potsdam is merely accenting the characteristic in brass.
* * * * *
Today I saw a whale. Every time I am on the ocean I see a whale. At first nobody else could see it, but soon a large number could. There was a good deal of excitement, and the passengers divided into two factions, those who saw the whale and those who didn’t and who evidently thought we didn’t. The argument lasted nearly all the morning, and would be going on yet if a ship had not appeared in the distance, and our passengers divided promptly as to whether it was a Cunarder, a French liner, or a Norwegian tramp freighter. This discussion will take our valuable time all the afternoon. Friends will become enemies, and some of those who rallied around the whale story are almost glaring at each other over the nationality of that distant vessel. I am trying to keep out of this debate, as I am something of a Hero because I saw the whale. I have already told of my nautical experience on Cow creek, so while I feel I would be considered an authority, it is better to let some of the other ambitious travelers get a reputation.
The Lions of the Ship
STEAMSHIP POTSDAM, July 19.
There are always "lions" on a ship, not the kind that roar and shake their manes, but those the other passengers point at and afterward recall with pride. I often speak carelessly of the time I crossed with Willie Vandergould, although he never left his room during the voyage and was probably sleeping off the effects of a long spree. Once I was a fellow-passenger with Julia Marlowe, a fact Julia never seemed to recognize. There are always a few counts and capitalists on an ocean steamer, and a ship without a lion is unfortunate. Our largest and finest specimen is Booth Tarkington, the head of the Indiana school of fiction, an author whose books have brought him fame and money, and a playwright whose dramatizations have won success. He is the tamest lion I ever crossed with. He is delightfully democratic, not a bit chesty, but rather modest, and as friendly to a traveling Jayhawker as he is to the distinguished members of the company. In fact, he understands and speaks the Kansas language like a native. His ideal of life is to have a home on an island in the track of the ocean steamers so he can sit on the porch and watch the ships come and go. Not for me. It is too much like living in a Kansas town where No. 3 and No. 4 do not stop, and every day the locomotives snort and go by without even hesitating.
* * * * *
Tarkington is an honest man, so he says, and he tells good sea stories. His favorite true story is of Toboga Bill, a big shark which followed ships up and down the South-American coast, foraging off the scraps the cooks threw overboard. Tarkington’s friend, Captain Harvey, got to noticing that on every trip his boat was escorted by Toboga Bill, whose bald spot on top and a wart on the nose made him easily recognizable. Harvey got to feeding him regularly with the spoiled meat and vegetables, and Toboga Bill would come to the surface, flop his fin at the captain and thank him as plainly as a shark could do. After several years of this mutual acquaintance the captain happened to be in a small-boat going out to his ship at a Central-American port. The boat upset, and the captain and sailors were immediately surrounded by a herd of man-eating sharks. The shore was a mile away and the captain swam that distance, the only one who escaped; and all the way he could see Toboga Bill with his fin standing up straight, keeping the other sharks from his old friend. Occasionally Toboga would give the captain a gentle shove, and finally pushed him onto the beach.
This story Tarkington admitted sounded like a fish story, but he has a motor-boat named Toboga Bill, which verifies the tale.
* * * * *
That reminded me of a Kansas fish story which I introduced to the audience. Everybody in Kansas knows of the herd of hornless catfish which has been bred near the Bowersock dam at Lawrence. Some years ago Mr. Bowersock, who owns the dam that furnishes power for the mill and other factories, conceived the idea that big Kaw river catfish going through the mill-race and onto the water-wheel added much to the power generated. Then he read that fish are very sensitive to music. So he hired a man with an accordion to stand over the mill-race and play. The catfish came from up and down stream to hear the music, and almost inevitably drifted through the race, onto the wheel, and increased the power. The fishes’ horns used to get entangled in the wheel and injure the fish; so Mr. Bowersock, who is a kind-hearted man and very persistent, had a lot of the fish caught and dehorned, and in a year or two he had a large herd of hornless catfish. These fish not only turn out to hear the music, but they have learned to enjoy the trip through the mill-race and over the wheel, so that every Sunday or oftener whole families of catfish--and they have large families--come to Bowersock’s dam to shoot the chutes something as people go out to ride on the scenic railway. Whenever the water in the river gets low Mr. Bowersock has the band play: the catfish gather and go round and round over the wheel, furnishing power for the Bowersock mill when every other wheel on the river is idle from lack of water.
There were some skeptical folks who heard my simple story and affected to disbelieve. But I assured them that it could be easily proven, and if they would go to Lawrence I would show them the Bowersock dam and the catfish. It is always a good idea to have the proofs for a fish story.
* * * * *