ter, and beyond
this streak, here and there, were tips of trees and of steeples, and
the red ridges of roofs that seemed to be peeping over to see us pass.
Not one hill, not one rise in the ground, not one house, could be
discovered anywhere: all was hidden, all seemed immersed in water; it
seemed that the islands were on the point of sinking into the river,
and we glanced stealthily at each other to make sure we were still
there. It seemed like going through a country during a flood, and it
was an agreeable thought that we were in a ship. Every now and then
the vessel stopped and some passengers for Zealand got into a boat and
went ashore. Although I was eager to visit the province, I
nevertheless regarded them with a feeling of compassion, imagining
that those unreal islands were only monster whales about to dive into
the water at the approach of the boats.

The captain of our ship, a Hollander, stopped near me to examine a
small map of Zealand which he held in his hand. I immediately seized
the opportunity and overwhelmed him with questions. Fortunately, I had
hit upon one of the few Dutchmen who, like us Italians, love the sound
of their own voices.

"Here in Zealand, even more than in other provinces," said he, as
seriously as if he were a master giving a lesson, "the dykes are a
question of life and death. At high tide all Zealand is below
sea-level. For every dyke that were broken, an island would
disappear. The worst of it is, that here the dykes have to resist not
only the direct shock of the waves, but another power which is even
more dangerous. The rivers fling themselves toward the sea,--the sea
casts itself against the rivers, and in this continual struggle
undercurrents are formed which wash the foundations of the
embankments, until they suddenly give way like a wall that is
undermined. The Zealanders must be continually on their guard. When a
dyke is in danger, they make another one farther inland, and await the
assault of the water behind it. Thus they gain time, and either
rebuild the first embankment or continue to recede from fortress to
fortress until the current changes and they are saved."

"Is it not possible," I asked, introducing the element of poetry,
"that some day Zealand may no longer exist?"

"On the contrary," he replied, to my sorrow: "the day may come in
which Zealand will no longer be an archipelago, but terra firma. The
Scheldt and the Meuse continually bring down mud, which is de