e
landscape, while a mist almost imperceptible makes all things appear
distant. There is a sense of silence to the eye, a peace of outline
and color, a repose in everything, so that the vision grows dim and
the imagination sleeps.

Not far from Rotterdam the town of Schiedam comes into view,
surrounded by very high windmills, which give it the appearance of a
fortress crowned with turrets; and far away can be seen the towers of
the village of Vlaardingen, one of the principal stations of the
herring-fisheries.

Between Schiedam and Delft I observed the windmills with great
attention. Dutch windmills do not at all resemble the decrepit mills I
had seen in the previous year at La Mancha, which seemed to be
extending their thin arms to implore the aid of heaven and earth. The
Dutch mills are large, strong, and vigorous, and Don Quixote would
certainly have hesitated before running atilt at them. Some are built
of stone or bricks, and are round or octagonal like mediaeval towers;
others are of wood, and look like boxes stuck on the summits of
pyramids. Most of them are thatched. About midway between the roof and
the ground they are encircled by a wooden platform. Their windows are
hung with white curtains, their doors are painted green, and on each
door is written the use which it serves. Besides drawing water, the
windmills do a little of everything: they grind grain, pound rags,
crumble lime, crush stones, saw wood, press olives, and pulverize
tobacco. A windmill is as valuable as a farm, and it takes a
considerable fortune to build one and provide it with colza, grain,
flour, and oil to keep it working, and to sell its products.
Consequently, in many places the riches of a proprietor are measured
by the number of mills he owns; an inheritance is counted by mills,
and they say of a girl that she has so many windmills as dowry, or,
even better, so many steam-mills; and fortune-hunters, who are to be
found everywhere, sue for the maiden's hand to marry the mill. These
countless winged towers scattered through the country give the
landscape a singular appearance; they animate the solitude. At night
in the midst of the trees they have a fantastic appearance, and look
like fabulous birds gazing at the sky. By day in the distance they
look like enormous pieces of fireworks; they turn, stop, curb and
slacken their speed, break the silence by their dull and monotonous
tick-tack, and when by chance they catch fire--which not in