Spring cleaning goes on here, as in the Dutch houses, all the year round, and the domiciliary part of the vessels is spotless.  Every bulwark has a washing tray that can be fixed or detached in a moment.  “It’s a fine day, let us kill something,” says the Englishman; “Here’s an odd moment, let us wash something,” says the Dutch vrouw.

In some of the Rotterdam canals the barges are so packed that they lie touching each other, with their burgees flying all in the same direction, as the vanes of St. Sepulchre’s in Holborn cannot do.  How they ever get disentangled again and proceed on their free way to their distant homes is a mystery.  But in the shipping world incredible things can happen at night.

One does not, perhaps, in Rotterdam realise all at once that every drop of water in these city-bound canals is related to every other drop of water in the other canals of Holland, however distant.  From any one canal you can reach in time every other.  The canal is really much more the high road of the country than the road itself.  The barge is the Pickford van of Holland.  Here we see some of the secret of the Dutch deliberateness.  A country which must wait for its goods until a barge brings them has every opportunity of acquiring philosophic phlegm.

After a while one gets accustomed to the ever-present canal and the odd spectacle (to us) of masts in the streets and sails in the fields.  All the Dutch towns are amphibious, but some are more watery than others.

The Dutch do not use their wealth of water as we should.  They do not swim in it, they do not race on it, they do not row for pleasure at all.  Water is their servant, never a light-hearted companion.

I can think of no more reposeful holiday than to step on board one of these barges wedged together in a Rotterdam canal, and never lifting a finger to alter the natural course of events—­to accelerate or divert—­be earned by it to, say, Harlingen, in Friesland:  between the meadows; under the noses of the great black and white cows; past herons fishing in the rushes; through little villages with dazzling milk-cans being scoured on the banks, and the good-wives washing, and saturnine smokers in black velvet slippers passing the time of day; through big towns, by rows of sombre houses seen through a delicate screen of leaves; under low bridges crowded with children; through narrow locks; ever moving, moving, slowly and surely, sometimes sailing, sometimes quanting, sometimes being towed, with the wide Dutch sky overhead, and the plovers crying in it, and the clean west wind driving the windmills, and everything just as it was in Rembrandt’s day and just as it will be five hundred years hence.

Holland when all is said is a country of canals.  It may have cities and pictures, windmills and cows, quaint buildings, and quainter costumes, but it is a country of canals before all.  The canals set the tune.  The canals keep it deliberate and wise.