In many ways Hoorn is more
remarkable as a town, but more of my heart belongs to Middelburg.
I sat on the coping of the harbour at sundown and watched a merry party
dining in the saloon of a white and exceedingly comfortable-looking
yacht, some thirty or forty yards away. Two neat maids continually
passed from the galley to the saloon, and laughter came over
the water. The yacht was from Arnheim, its owner having all the
appearance of a retired East Indian official. In the distance was
a tiny sailing boat with its sail set to catch what few puffs of
wind were moving. Its only occupant was a man in crimson trousers,
the reflection from which made little splashes of warm colour in the
pearl grey sea. At Hoorn there seems to be a tendency to sail for
pleasure, for as we came away a party of chattering girls glided out
in the care of an elderly man--bound for a cruise in the Zuyder Zee.
It is conjectured that Hoorn took its name from the mole protecting the
harbour, which might be considered to have the shape of a horn. The
city as she used to be (now dwindled to something less, although
the cheese industry makes her prosperous enough and happy enough)
was called by the poet Vondel the trumpet and capital of the Zuyder
Zee, the blessed Horn.
Pages:
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292