Also on the Dam is the New Church, which is to be seen more for the tomb of De Ruyter than for any architectural graces.  The old sea dog, whose dark and determined features confront one in Bol’s canvases again and again in Holland, reposes in full dress on a cannon amid symbols of his victories.  Close by, in the Royal Palace, are some of the flags which he wrested from the English.  Other admirals also lie there, the Dutch naval commander never having wanted for honour in his own country.

The New Church, where the monarchs of Holland are crowned, has a very large new stained-glass window representing the coronation of Queen Wilhemina—­one of the most satisfying new windows that I know, but quite lacking in any religious suggestion.  That poet who considered a church the best retreat, because it is good to contemplate God through stained glass, would have fared badly in Holland.

The New Church is new only by comparison with the Old.  It was built in 1410, rebuilt in 1452 and 1645.  Amsterdam’s Old Church, on the other side of Warmoes Straat, dates from 1300.  The visitor to the New Church is handed a brief historical leaflet in exchange for his twenty-five cents, and is left to his own devices; but the Old Church has a koster who takes a pride in showing his lions and who deprecates gifts of money.  An elderly, clean-shaved man with a humorous mouth, he might be taken for Holland’s leading comedian.  Instead, he displays ecclesiastical treasures, of which in 1904 there were fewer than usual, two of the three fine old windows representing the life of the Virgin being under repair behind a screen.  The tombs and monuments are not interesting—­admirals of the second rank and such small fry.

It is in the Old Church that most of the weddings of Amsterdam are celebrated.  Thursday is the day, for then the fees are practically nothing; on other days to be married is an expense.  The koster deplores the modern materialism which leads so many young men to be satisfied with the civil function; but the little enclosure, like a small arena, in which the church blesses unions, had to me a hardly less business-like appearance than a registry office.  The comedian overflows with details.  For the covering of the floor, he explains, there are five distinct carpets, ranging in price from five guelders to twenty-five for the hire, according to the means or ostentation of the party.  Thursdays are no holiday for the church officials, one couple being hardly united before the horses of the next are pawing the paving stones at the door.

I saw on one Thursday three bridal parties in as many minutes.  The happy bride sat on the back seat of the brougham, immediately before her being two mirrors in the shape of a heart supporting a bouquet of white flowers.  Contemplating this simple imagery she rattles to the ecclesiastical arena and the sanctities of the five, ten, fifteen, twenty or twenty-five guelder carpet.  After, a banquet and jokes.