The morning dragged on. It was a hot, gusty day, and I found the shelter
of my poky little room the most comfortable resting-place, although
instead of a chair I had but a wooden case to sit on. About eleven I saw
a clerical gentleman arriving, who I rightly concluded was the parson
coming to conduct the service. Presently the strangest of noises I have
ever heard arose from the back-premises of the tiny house. It is
difficult to conceive anything so grotesque as some Dutch singing is.
Imagine a doleful wail of many voices, shrill treble and deep bass, all
on one note, now swelling in volume, now almost dying away, sung with a
certain metre, and presumably with soul-stirring words, but with no
attempt to keep together or any pretensions to an air of any kind, and
you will have an idea of a Dutch chant or hymn. This noise--for it
cannot be called a harmony--might equally well be produced by a howling
party of dogs and cats. Then followed long prayers--for only the
parson's voice could be heard--then more dirges, after which it was
over, and all trooped away, apparently much edified. One of the nurses
brought me some lunch and spread it on the rickety table, with a dirty
napkin as a tablecloth. As regards the food, which these young ladies
told me they took it in turn to cook, it was very fair; only one day we
got no meat and no meal; the other days they gave me eggs, very good
beef, splendid potatoes, and bread in any quantity.
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