1936 On the Continent

the town. And along the silent waterways that encircle and cut through the city, near the age-old houses with their Flemish gables, it seems that time has arrested its flight for ever.
    These canals have earned for Bruges the name of “The Venice of the North.” You will visit them by boat, and no detail will escape you of time-fretted stone at the doors of the buildings that edge the water, dipping into the canals; or of ornaments that time has left intact on the bridges, of other archaeological relics preserved from decay through the centuries.
    It would be superfluous to enumerate the things one should see in Bruges. The whole town is a vast museum; from the market hall to the town hall; from the Law Courts to the Beguinage. From the cathedral to the numerous churches, paved with gravestones, it is one long array of magnificent sculpture, canvases painted by old masters and artistic treasures of every kind.
    Muriel and I wandered long through this thousand-year-old city where such boundless riches have been accumulated. For, in the Middle Ages, Bruges was not only one of the greatest trading centres in the world, but also the home of famous artists, whose works are among the most highly prized treasures of the town. In those days Bruges had an outlet to the sea by a natural waterway, and the annals of the town boast that in 1456, 150 vessels entered the port in one day. This canal was choked up by sand in the course of time, and the ships were diverted towards the new port of Antwerp. This was the death-knell of the trade and life of the capital of Flanders, and this town, whose citizens numbered 75,000 in the Middle Ages, has only a population of 58,000 citizens to-day.
    The town has been completely abandoned by the great traders, and its industries have died.
    That is why those once busy canals are lonely now. Their waters are ruffled only by the passing of countless swans and the swish of oars or propellers as the boats go by with tourists, and that is why the once flowering gardens are full of silence and solitary grandeur.
The Poetry of Bruges
    It is a town where it is impossible not to dream—or love, the poets add. And, as we lingered by the “Minnewater” (the Love-lake), Muriel spoke:
    “How pleasant it must have been to live in those olden days when men strove to produce lasting and beautiful things. What art, what splendour and what beauty in so small a space. Yes. I would have loved to live in those times.”
    And I, standing beside the “Minnewater,” what could I reply?
    “If I’d never met you, Muriel, my life would have been incomplete. The wonder of all this is that the past and the present are so closely linked. I look at you, and you are one with the beauty of the landscape. You dispel the phantoms and the mists wrapped about these places, and I imagine the ‘Love-lake’ was never more perfect than your dear presence makes it now.”
    “Be reasonable,” said Muriel, “don’t let’s spoil this happy holiday.”
    “True, there are many things to see yet. First among them the lace-makers, at their doors, working away all day and every day. This is one of the most flourishing industries in Bruges, where a great many crafts are still practised: pottery, wrought-iron work, furniture making.”
    In the evening we listened to the Carillon concert which is given every Monday and Wednesday. Does it interest you to know that the belfry holds no less than forty-nine bells weighing in all 55,160 lb., and that the great bell cast in 1680 weighs alone 19,000 lb.? You must go and listen to one of these concerts and look at the great belfry, whose towers cleave the sky to a height of eighty-five metres. All authors who have written about it agree that the Belfry of Bruges is the most beautiful in the world. I am convinced you will think the same.
Ghent
    And now, the time has come to leave Bruges, the town in Belgium that has guarded most preciously its ancient charm; Bruges-the-dead, as George Rodenbach wrote. One day Leopold II met the poet and said: “Bruges-the-dead, yes, you’re right, M. Rodenbach, but don’t worry, we’re going to alter all that; we’re going to give it trams and buses, we’re going to build there, and you’ll see that trade will pick up again.” Fortunately, the old king did nothing of the sort, and Bruges has remained as it was.
    The environment of the town, and Flanders too, are unchanged. Its rich soil stretches in great fields to Ghent, and everywhere little