The Story of Mankind | Page 3

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THE STORY OF MANKIND BY HENDRIK VAN LOON, PH.D.
Professor of the Social Sciences in Antioch College. Author of The Fall
of the Dutch Republic, The Rise of the Dutch Kingdom, The Golden
Book of the Dutch Navigators, A Short Story of Discovery, Ancient
Man.

Frontispiece caption = THE SCENE OF OUR HISTORY IS LAID
UPON A LITTLE PLANET, LOST IN THE VASTNESS OF THE

UNIVERSE.

THE STORY OF MANKIND BY HENDRIK VAN LOON

To JIMMIE ``What is the use of a book without pictures?'' said Alice.

FOREWORD
For Hansje and Willem:
WHEN I was twelve or thirteen years old, an uncle of mine who gave
me my love for books and pictures promised to take me upon a
memorable expedition. I was to go with him to the top of the tower of
Old Saint Lawrence in Rotterdam.
And so, one fine day, a sexton with a key as large as that of Saint Peter
opened a mysterious door. ``Ring the bell,'' he said, ``when you come
back and want to get out,'' and with a great grinding of rusty old hinges
he separated us from the noise of the busy street and locked us into a
world of new and strange experiences.
For the first time in my life I was confronted by the phenomenon of
audible silence. When we had climbed the first flight of stairs, I added
another discovery to my limited knowledge of natural phenomena--that
of tangible darkness. A match showed us where the upward road
continued. We went to the next floor and then to the next and the next
until I had lost count and then there came still another floor, and
suddenly we had plenty of light. This floor was on an even height with
the roof of the church, and it was used as a storeroom. Covered with
many inches of dust, there lay the abandoned symbols of a venerable
faith which had been discarded by the good people of the city many
years ago. That which had meant life and death to our ancestors was
here reduced to junk and rub- bish. The industrious rat had built his
nest among the carved images and the ever watchful spider had opened

up shop between the outspread arms of a kindly saint.
The next floor showed us from where we had derived our light.
Enormous open windows with heavy iron bars made the high and
barren room the roosting place of hundreds of pigeons. The wind blew
through the iron bars and the air was filled with a weird and pleasing
music. It was the noise of the town below us, but a noise which had
been purified and cleansed by the distance. The rumbling of heavy carts
and the clinking of horses' hoofs, the winding of cranes and pulleys, the
hissing sound of the patient steam which had been set to do the work of
man in a thousand different ways--they had all been blended into a
softly rustling whisper which provided a beautiful background for the
trembling cooing of the pigeons.
Here the stairs came to an end and the ladders began. And after the first
ladder (a slippery old thing which made one feel his way with a
cautious foot) there was a new and even greater wonder, the town-clock.
I saw the heart of time. I could hear the heavy pulsebeats of the rapid
seconds--one--two--three-- up to sixty. Then a sudden quivering noise
when all the wheels seemed to stop and another minute had been
chopped off eternity. Without pause it began
again--one--two--three--until at last after a warning rumble and the
scraping of many wheels a thunderous voice, high above us, told the
world that it was the hour of noon.
On the next floor were the bells. The nice little bells