Peeps at Many Lands: Belgium | Page 6

hotels, lodging-houses, and big shops. Crowds of people go
there in summer. There are horse-races, concerts, dancing, and a great
deal of gambling. One part of the beach in front of the digue is crowded

with bathing-machines, and it is said that during one day in August a
few years ago no fewer than 7,000 people bathed.
[Illustration: THE VEGETABLE MARKET, BRUGES.]
Ostend, however, is not a nice place to stay in. In summer it is noisy,
and full of people who care for nothing but eating, drinking, dressing
up, and gambling. In winter it is an ugly, dull, stupid town, in which
there is nothing to do, and nothing to see except fishing-boats and the
steamers which carry travellers to and from Dover. So we shall not say
anything more about it, but take the train, and in twenty minutes find
ourselves in a really interesting place.
This is Bruges. They call it Bruges la Morte--that is to say, "Bruges, the
Dead City." Once upon a time, long, long ago, this town was great, and
rich, and prosperous. It was surrounded by strong walls, and within it
were many gilded palaces, the homes of merchant princes whose
wealth was the talk of all the world. Their houses were full of precious
stones, tapestries, silk, fine linen, and cloth of gold. Their warehouses
were stored with costly bales. They lent money to Kings and Princes,
and lived themselves in almost royal luxury. A broad channel led from
the sea to Bruges, and ships entered daily laden with goods from every
country in Europe, as well as from India and all parts of the world. In
those days the cloth made by the Flemish weavers was famous, and the
greatest market for wool was at Bruges.
So Bruges grew richer and richer, and much money was spent in
beautifying the town, in which there are said to have been 200,000
industrious people. Churches rose, and other noble buildings. There
were endless tournaments and festivals. Painters flourished there.
Bruges was spoken of as the Venice of the North.
But all this came to an end. The channel which joined this great city to
the sea dried up. There were wars and rebellions which drove the
foreign merchants away. They went to Antwerp. Bruges fell, and has
remained fallen ever since.
It is now a quiet, sad place, so poor that the streets are badly lighted,

seldom cleaned, and have a desolate, neglected appearance. The few
families of the upper class who live there belong to what is called the
petite noblesse; there is almost no trade or commerce; and many of the
lower orders live on charity.
But this dead city is very romantic, with all its memories of olden times.
Nobody should go to Belgium without visiting Bruges, once so famous
and now so fallen, not only because it is picturesque, with its old
buildings and quaint views such as artists love to paint, but also
because it is so quiet that you can watch the customs of a Belgian town
without being disturbed by a crowd--the market-folk with their wares
spread out on the stones of the street, the small carts drawn by dogs, the
women sitting at their doors busy with lace-making, the pavements
occupied by tables at which people sit drinking coffee or beer, the
workmen clanking along in their wooden shoes, and numberless little
things which are different from what you see at home.
Every town in Belgium has its "belfry," a tower rising over some
venerable building, from which, in the days of almost constant warfare,
a beacon used to blaze, or a bell ring out, to call the citizens to arms.
The belfry of Bruges is, I think, the finest of them all. If you have ever
been to Bruges you can never forget it. It rises high above the
market-place. All day long, year after year, the chimes ring every
quarter of an hour; and all night too, unceasingly, through winter storm
and summer moonlight, the belfry pours forth its perpetual lament over
the dead city.
Not far from Bruges, only forty minutes by railway, is another ancient
town called Ghent; but instead of being dead like Bruges, it is alive and
busy. In the days of old the people of Ghent were the most independent
and brave in Belgium. In the belfry there was a famous bell called
"Roland," and if any of their rulers attempted to tax them against their
will, this Roland was rung, and wagged his iron tongue so well that the
townsmen armed themselves at once, and the tax-gatherers were driven
away. It was no easy task to rule them, as all who tried it found to their
cost. They grew very rich, chiefly because of their trade in wool with