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brussels is a gay little city that lies as bright within its girdle of

publish 2022-05-13,browse 6
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brussels is a gay little city that lies as bright within its girdle of woodland as any butterfly that rests upon moss. the city has its ways and wiles of paris. it decks itself with white and gold. it has music under its trees and soldiers in its streets, and troops marching and countermarching along its sunny avenues. it has blue and pink, and yellow and green, on its awnings and on its house fronts. it has a merry openair life on its pavements at little marble tables before little gaycolored cafés. it has gilded balconies, and tossing flags, and comic operas, and leisurely pleasure seekers, and tries always to believe and make the world believe that it is paris in very truth. but this is only the brussels of the noblesse and the foreigners. there is a brussels that is better than thisa brussels that belongs to the old burgher life, to the artists and the craftsmen, to the mastermasons of the moyenâge, to the same spirit and soul that once filled the free men of ghent and the citizens of bruges and the besieged of leyden, and the blood of egmont and of horn. down there by the waterside, where the old quaint walls lean over the yellow sluggish stream, and the green barrels of the antwerp barges swing against the dusky piles of the crumbling bridges. in the gray square desolate courts of the old palaces, where in cobwebbed galleries and silent chambers the flemish tapestries drop to pieces. in the great populous square, where, above the clamorous and rushing crowds, the majestic front of the maison du roi frowns against the sun, and the spires and pinnacles of the burgomasters gatheringhalls tower into the sky in all the fantastic luxuriance of gothic fancy. under the vast shadowy wings of angels in the stillness of the cathedral, across whose sunny aisles some little child goes slowly all alone, laden with lilies for the feast of the assumption, till their white glory hides its curly head. in all strange quaint oldworld niches withdrawn from men in silent grassgrown corners, where a twelfthcentury corbel holds a pot of roses, or a gothic arch yawns beneath a wool warehouse, or a waterspout with a grinning fauns head laughs in the grim humor of the moyenâge above the bent head of a young laceworker. in all these, brussels, though more worldly than her sisters of ghent and bruges, and far more worldly yet than her teuton cousins of freiburg and nürnberg, is still in her own way like as a monkish story mixed up with the romaunt of the rose; or rather like some gay french vaudeville, all fashion and jest, illustrated in old missal manner with helm and hauberk, cope and cowl, praying knights and fighting priests, winged griffins and nimbused saints, flamebreathing dragons and enamoured princes, all mingled together in the illuminated colors and the heroical grotesque romance of the middle ages. and it was this side of the city that bébée knew; and she loved it well, and would not leave it for the market of the madeleine. she had no one to tell her anything, and all antoine had ever been able to say to her concerning the broodhuis was that it had been there in his fathers time; and regarding st. gudule, that his mother had burned many a candle before its altars for a dead brother who had been drowned off the dunes. but the childs mind, unled, but not misled, had pondered on these things, and her heart had grown to love them; and perhaps no student of spanish architecture, no antiquary of moyenâge relics, loved st. gudule and the broodhuis as little ignorant bébée did. there had been a time when great dark, fierce men had builded these things, and made the place beautiful. so much she knew; and the little

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