IVThe Blacksmith of Antwerp

INTERIOR OF AN OLD HOUSE, ANTWERP.

The next day Hochstetter presented himself at the house. He had come for the last time to ask the hand of Katharina for his son. Knowing his friend for so many years he had discovered, notwithstanding Frügger’s efforts to hide it, the inexorable passion which tyrannized over him, but he would never have believed that the miser would be dominated by this passion to such an extent as to cause the unhappiness of these two children. Seeing that this demon of avarice gained upon him every day he had come to propose the union of Katharina and his son, upon such terms as would be exceedingly gratifying to the old man. He would take his daughter without obliging him to part with the slightest portion of his colossal fortune, not even the heritage left her by her mother. He felt almost certain that his old friend wouldhasten to consent as soon as he made known his intentions.

But Frügger could not be found. The servants, who for a long time had become accustomed to the prolonged absences of their master, at first were not anxious. They begged Hochstetter to return later in the day, which he did, but still no news of Frügger. As his disappearances had never lasted so long, when the whole day had passed, anxiety was at its height. On returning the third time, he insisted upon seeing Katharina. Their anxiety overcame their respect for the severe orders of their master, and they conducted him to her presence. The young girl was happy to see her old friend; grief had rendered her incapable of taking the necessary measures of searching for her father, which Hochstetter willingly undertook. He performed this task conscientiously, and did all that was possible to be done, sparing neither trouble nor expense to discover the retreat of his friend. He sent couriers to Germany, Holland, Italy, and to all the great commercial cities with which Frügger had had business connections—but in vain. No one had seen the rich German. No one could give any information of him.

Another circumstance astonished Hochstetter.He knew that the fortune of Frügger was one of the most colossal of this period, and even if he had not known it, his books, kept with the most scrupulous neatness and exactitude, were there to prove that, far from diminishing, it had increased considerably; but then, in making the inventory of what he really possessed, they found only a quarter of what was expected. This circumstance caused much remark from the Antwerp merchants and the members of his family who came to Antwerp to convince themselves of the truth of such an incredible event. It was rumoured at the Bourse that Frügger the Rich had fled, or committed suicide perhaps, on account of the enormous losses that he had sustained, and that his fortune had diminished in an alarming manner. But Hochstetter knew too well the fortune and the speculations of Frügger to put any faith in these rumours. The only certainty was that he had disappeared and with him the greatest part of his riches, and that Katharina had become an orphan sufficiently rich but much below what she could have one day hoped for.

A little more than a year after the disappearance of Frügger the two lovers were married in the church of St. André. Long, very long, the miser’s fate remained an inexplicable mystery,and would have perhaps so remained forever, if, as frequently happens, accident had not explained the enigma. After the marriage Carl and Katharina went to live in the sumptuous mansion of her husband, and the house of Frügger was more or less abandoned. Hochstetter had been dead many years when their eldest son was about to be married, and as the house of Frügger formed a part of his dowry they resolved to repair and alter it, and make it worthy of receiving the young couple. One day while the workmen were excavating in the garden they came to announce to Carl that they had found a few feet under the earth a vault of which no one knew the existence. It contained bars of gold and silver, coins of all countries, precious stones, and especially diamonds of incalculable value. On the floor lay a skeleton. From the pieces of clothing that still covered it it was recognized as that of “Frügger the Miser.” In searching further they discovered a heavy iron door, communicating with the other cellars, and so artistically concealed in the walls that it was impossible to suspect its existence.

To open it, they were obliged to demolish it completely. A very small key was found on the other side of the door, still remaining in thelock. There was the explanation of his frequent absences and of the final disappearance of the old man. In his eagerness to enjoy the sight of his treasures, he had forgotten to take out the key upon entering his sanctuary; the door had closed upon him and he had remained alone with his gold, and starved in the midst of riches vast enough to have bought a realm.

They were seated in a rich and shady arbour, over which creeping vines wandered in every variety of curve, suspending large clusters of precious fruits, while the atmosphere was laden with the mellow fragrance of the gorgeous plants which grew in wild, untutored luxuriance about the shady retreat. The fading light of day yet lingered, and gave a rosy hue to the face of the maid who sat therein, as she regarded with mournful tenderness the youth seated at her side.

“Nay, Quentin,” said she, “say not so, it is duty which prompts me to say it must not be.Had I not affection for my father, do you believe I would act contrary to my own desires? would I cause you unhappiness?”

“Is this your love?” said the other, with a tone of fretfulness. “Methinks it cannot be a very ardent flame when it is so easily extinguished by the perverse and obstinate tyranny of a—”

“Stay your words,” interrupted the girl, as she laid her delicate hand tenderly on his lips. “You will respect the father if you love the child.” The noble mind of the youth was struck with the reproof, and although opposed to his desires her filial reply expressed such purity and excellence, that he instantly made reparation.

“Forgive me, dearest,” he entreated. “I spoke hastily and unworthily. But your words have crazed my soul, which builds its happiness on the possession of you. If it may not be that I shall be your husband, oh! promise me that no other shall.”

“I would fain do so,” sighed the afflicted girl, “but if my father commands, can I disobey? I have had no mother’s care since childhood, but I have scarce felt the loss. My father has thrown off the coldness of a man and been a very woman in his affection for me. ShallI repay his kindness with ingratitude? Alas! Quentin, if he tells me to love another, I cannot do so; but if he bids me wed, Quentin, you would not censure me?” The expiring rays of the setting sun fell on her features as she earnestly gazed upon her lover.

“Ah!” cried the youth, with a sudden start, as he struck his hand upon his brow, “why that blush, that agitation? Deceive me not, Elzia, you are not supposing a case. This has already happened; I see it all; your father has selected a bridegroom for you.”

The maid sank her head upon his bosom, and through her struggling tears she sobbed, “Quentin, thou hast said it.”

Desperate was the conflict in the bosom of the youth as he sat like one in a trance, his eyes fixed on hers, which, like the sun breaking through clouds of the passing storm, gleamed from under their dripping lashes. Soon he saw the rainbow of hope.

“Who is my rival?” he asked with a voice scarcely audible.

“Van Deg,” she answered sorrowfully.

“Do you love him, Elzia?”

“How can you ask?”

“Will you marry him?”

“My father’s happiness is dearer to me thanmy own. Think you I would wantonly sacrifice it?”

“But why van Deg?”

“Because he excels in my father’s art.”

“Alas!” cried the despairing lover, “why am I not a painter?”

The bed of Quentin was one of thorns that night, as he threw himself upon it and yielded to his agony of thought. How vainly, yet how ardently had he loved, how industriously had he laboured to procure her affection. Just when he had achieved the victory over her confiding heart, all that he struggled for was lost—no, not lost—he could bear the thoughts of her death, he could weep over her grave, he could care for the flowers above it, but to think that the prize must be torn from him to be given to another’s embrace, there was madness in it. And then van Deg, that rough, haughty, distant man! how unworthy he to possess a jewel of such value, how unfit to care for such a tender plant, how unsuitable his unsocial spirit for the angel who needed some congenial soul to insure her happiness.

“Will she not droop and die in that cold atmosphere with him?” he asked himself, as at length exhausted nature yielded to weariness and he fell asleep.

The mind, however, yielded not to the fatigue of the body; on the contrary it seemed to have more abundant vitality. Quentin dreamed he was in the street. The bells rang, the people shouted, and gay equipages passed by. It was a day of public rejoicing, for Elzia, the daughter of Algini, was to wed van Deg, the nation’s favourite, the celebrated painter. People recounted the scenes he had delineated and lauded the artist to the skies. Quentin trembled and the cold perspiration gathered on his forehead as the nuptial cavalcade approached. They halted at the chapel and the groom conducted the bride all pale and trembling up the aisle to the altar. As the father was about giving his daughter away, Quentin rushed up and seized her; she shrieked and fell dead in his embrace. Her relatives and the priest all gazed in horror! Quentin raised his eyes, saw the misery in their countenances, and as his face fell upon the bosom of his lovely burden he expired—and at that moment awoke.

Still the people were before his eyes, fresh in his recollection as if he had beheld the awful scenes by the noonday sun. Impelled by an unaccountable impulse he arose and lighted his lamp, and taking a coal from the extinguished embers in his chimney, he commenced a pictureof this scene upon the wall. He drew each face, recoiling in surprise at the perfect resemblance to the individuals. As he finished the outline he beheld in it a faithful transfer of his dream, wanting nothing but colour. A thousand thoughts darted through his brain. He flung himself on his bed, and when he next awoke the rays of the sun had gilded his apartment. His first object was to seek the mural picture, and he trembled lest it had all been a dream, but there it stood as if executed by a magic power.

“If this is the result of an effort with charcoal,” cried he, striking his breast in a delirium of joy, “what might I not effect with other means? What might be my reward?”

As daylight sought its slumbers in the bosom of night the lovers met again. “I’m doing wrong,” murmured Elzia, “in meeting you, since I am an affianced bride. This night must be our last. It is a sad thing to part with those we love; yet I act as virtue dictates, and we must meet no more, as—”

“Say not that we shall meet no more as lovers; say that we shall meet no more; for, Elzia, could we meet but to love, to upbraid fate which so cruelly divides us?”

“I must away,” said the girl; “if Quentin’saffection is pure he will condemn me for lingering.”

“Farewell, then, sweetest. If I lose thee I will wander to some distant clime and strive to bury my regrets in new cares and new companions.”

He imprinted a kiss upon her willing lips. He watched her retiring form as it appeared and disappeared amid the foliage at intervals until it was finally lost to his anxious view; then he turned slowly and sadly away.

Never did father love his daughter with more fondness than Algini his child Elzia. Her good was his great aim. He was an enthusiast in the art of the pencil, and deemed that one of that profession would be most worthy of his child. The two passions of his soul mingled in such a manner that they became one. He considered the canvas a lasting monument to genius, and that he would best secure his daughter’s happiness by uniting her to one who would be alive to all posterity in his works. Algini had therefore selected van Deg, as he was the boast of his country, and the figures of his creation wanted nothing but motion to make them the exact counterpart of the living originals. Besides, he was wealthy and would add to the riches of the family. Finally, his daughterwas not old enough now to judge for herself, and though she had confessed that she was prejudiced against her proposed husband, a few years of connubial intercourse would overcome that, and she would ultimately be benefited.

Just as the father was at this point of reflection a letter carrier entered the apartment and handed him a letter, saying he would wait without for an answer, that he had been bound by oath not to disclose who had commissioned him to deliver this communication. Algini was astonished at these words, and as soon as the man retired broke the seal and read.

“If the parent consulted the daughter’s happiness would he not find out from her whether she loves another? I think she does. May it not be a mistake for van Deg to possess the fair being? May her marriage to the man of your choice not hurry her to another world? Her obedience causes her to submit. I lay claim to her affections, but do not pretend to alter your determination. You have the reputation of patronizing merit as it appears in painting. Defer the nuptials to this day twelve month, and let van Deg on that day place his chef d’œuvre on the left of the altar. If the one which appears on the right does not tellof a more skilful master I abide the result. If it does, then it is fair to leave your daughter the privilege of choosing her husband.”

The father was delighted with the proposal, and agreed to the trial of skill in his favourite pursuit. He accordingly returned word of his acceptance of the terms and notified van Deg thereof.

A year passed away, during which the lovers never met. Elzia had lost sight of Quentin, and in answer to her inquiries concerning him, all that she had been able to learn was that shortly after their last interview he had left the city and had gone no one knew whither.

The wedding day arrived. Elzia kept a smiling face, although her soul was weighed down by grief.

The chapel was thronged with people anxious to view the ceremony, and as the bride, richly clad, was led to the altar by her father the latter announced that her hand was to be bestowed on the artist whose skill was to be determined by the merit of the pictures which stood veiled on either side of the altar. At the proclamation van Deg glanced triumphantly around, and striding to the picture he had painted, uncurtained it to their view. A burst of applauserose from the audience as he did so, and well merited was the cry of approval. The painting was of the chapel and the company assembled for the marriage. There was the priest all but breathing, while the bride and groom and their friends appeared as if in the full flush of joy.

Algini was about to speak in rapture of the performance when suddenly the other curtain was drawn aside and a cry of horror burst from the multitude as they pressed forward to behold it better. Van Deg gazed in breathless wonder and Algini uttered a wild shriek of despair—“My daughter!”

The picture represented Quentin’s dream; each face in it was easy to recognize, except that of the youth, which was buried in the bosom of the bride. But before they had fully scanned it, it was thrust aside and another appeared in its place. This represented a lonely arbour in which Algini in his old age dangled a beautiful infant which bore a likeness to Elzia, who sat on an opposite seat with her head resting on the bosom of a young man, whose arm encircled her waist.

Every one was charmed and delighted beyond measure, and as they beheld the youth, every tongue cried, “The Blacksmith!”

WELL OF QUENTIN MATSYS, ANTWERP.

“Blacksmith no more,” said Quentin, stepping from behind the canvas, “but the artist who demands his reward.”

It is unnecessary to say more than that genius was rewarded, and to the happy husband Quentin Matsys, the Blacksmith of Antwerp, the world owes some of the finest relics of art.

Long, very long before the city of Antwerp had attained the extent which it now has, the milk-women, who supplied the city with this indispensable liquid, met every morning in a public square, which was soon designated by the name of “Marché-au-Lait” (Milk Market). These women, like all business people at that time, belonged to a corporation which had its rules, rights and privileges. They were too proud to serve the “bourgeois” upon the steps of his door, so each servant was obliged to go to their stands to buy milk.

The pump now situated in the Milk Market is a very pretty monument. It is surmounted by a carved statuette representing a milk-woman,with the peculiar brass milk can of the country upon her head. It is the history of this statuette which we propose to relate.

There still exists on the Milk Market an old house, which is, one would say, in nearly the same condition that it was three hundred years ago. Like all the houses of that period (which are so faithfully represented in the admirable paintings of the celebrated artist, Baron Leys) the front is of wood, ornamented with carving in the Gothic style, one story projecting over the other, and surmounted by a triangular gable. One would think it had not undergone the slightest alteration since the day it was built. The same small iron knocker hangs upon the old oaken door. There is not the slightest doubt that the same stone forms the threshold, it is so worn and polished; it was formerly a square but has now become nearly a cylinder. The whole aspect of the house is so little changed, that if the first person who dwelt in it should come back to earth today he would easily recognize it. The interior as well as the exterior is unaltered. There are the same straight somber stairs, the same large fireplaces, and gilded leather upon the principal room. Not a stone has been replaced, not a piece of wood removed. The repairs whichmust have been made in the course of three hundred years, have only served to retain everything in its original state. But what is still more singular, the individuals who have successively occupied this house, and their number must have been considerable, all resembled each other, in their manners and morals. Was it accident, predestination, or the unvarying aspect of the house, continually making the same impression upon its inhabitants, which finally made them nearly identical beings?

The present inhabitant is a basket maker, as was the first, three centuries ago, and as have been all those who have occupied the house between these two periods. They were from the first to the last, people whose ideas were at least half a century behind the times. If we should search the history of this antique dwelling, we should probably find that the biography of one would answer for all. The basket maker who occupied this house in 1530 was named Klaes Dewis—his wife Gertrude. They were, as we have said, at least half a century behind, in their manners, opinions and dress. His neighbours called him the man of the good old times. Although possessed of a moderate fortune and without children, he was such a miser that he would, as the Flemish saying is, “splita match in four pieces,” which is certainly the height of meanness.

A young peasant girl, fresh and blonde, with large blue eyes, and picturesque costume, came every morning and placed herself before his house, to sell the milk which she brought in a fine brass can, polished like a mirror. The custom of seeing her a few hours every day had gradually caused an affection between her and this worthy couple; although in part based upon personal interest, still it was deep. As the basket maker sometimes said, he had for Lyntje, (which was the name of the pretty peasant), a paternal love, and as for Gertrude, his wife, she said she loved her as she would a daughter.

When the weather was bad, if it rained or snowed, Dewis could not display his baskets, which were usually installed at the door, consequently Lyntje occupied their place and was sheltered from the elements. When it was cold, she came from time to time to warm herself in the kitchen. The milk girl was touched by these delicate attentions, and showed it by giving good measure to Mother Dewis, who for oneliardhad often more milk than her neighbours for two. These agreeable relations had existed for several years, when suddenly an unforeseen event terminated them.

One morning in the month of August, 1530, Dewis did not see the young peasant arrive at her accustomed hour. He waited until the middle of the day before he put his baskets out, as it threatened to rain. Such a thing had not happened since the day he first made her acquaintance. Mother Dewis was so affected that she forgot to buy milk of another. This gave her husband an opportunity of saying that the use of milk was only a luxurious habit. But it made no impression upon his better half, to whom the absence of Lyntje was a cause of great inquietude.

“Can she be sick?” she asked him with anxiety. But then she recalled her robust constitution, her rosy cheeks, and dismissed that thought as impossible.

The next day no Lyntje. This was extremely grave, and their anxiety was at its height. The basket maker was on the point of going out of the city (which he had not done for perhaps twenty years) to the village where Lyntje lived. He would have executed this design if his wife had not observed to him, that he would gravely compromise the soles of his shoes. This judicious remark caused him to postpone his excursion until the next day. The next morning a countryman came to inform them of the deathof Lyntje. The poor girl had been taken ill and died the same night. Before dying, she had remembered her friends in the city, and had expressed the desire that some one would carry them the fatal news. The basket maker and his wife, smitten in their dearest affection, wishing to do something for the repose of her soul, formed the resolution that they would never again use milk!

Several weeks had passed since the death of the generous milk girl, and her old friends had not been able to recover the calm of their former life. They seemed on the contrary to become more melancholy as the days and weeks wore on after that unfortunate event. Instead of taking the air upon their doorsteps and conversing with their neighbours, as they had been in the habit of doing, they never sat there now, and had become nearly invisible. They went regularly every morning to the cathedral, where as exemplary Christians, they attended the first mass. Then they had such a depressed air, the expression of their faces showed a grief so bitter, that not an inhabitant of the market dared to speak to them. When, however, one bolder than the others ventured to question them, heobtained only a few syllables in response. The neighbours, who all felt a great sympathy for them, would have been glad to console them. They did not know what to think of such singular conduct, so contrary to all their habits.

“I cannot believe that grief alone, for a friend like Lyntje, could affect them to such a point,” said Mynheer Schuermans, the plumber, one day to his friend, Mynheer Dorekens, the baker upon the corner, who in the morning came to chat with one or the other of his neighbours while his last oven of bread was baking.

“It is true that they lost something,” responded he, “because my wife says so, and she is incapable of telling a falsehood. You know, neighbour, Mother Dewis had more milk for herliardthan we for two.”

“And have you noticed,” said the wife of Schuermans, joining in the conversation held before her door, “that Dewis completely neglects his business? Only yesterday he forgot to put out his baskets when he returned from the cathedral. They have not opened their door during the day. It is thirty years since we have lived upon the market, and I cannot remember such a thing to have happened. If it had rained—but such superb weather. Is theirbusiness in a bad state? I do not think so. He has money.”

“What can it be?” said all three.

At the same instant the basket maker’s door slowly opened, and he came out with so much gravity, even solemnity, that the neighbours were struck with astonishment and suddenly ceased their conversation. There was reason for it. It was the middle of the week, notwithstanding which he had on his Sunday suit, which at this time never occurred except upon important occasions. To the friendly nod of his neighbours he responded by a silent and melancholy salutation, and advanced with slow and measured steps in the direction of a very fine mansion situated near the cathedral. They watched him until he had reached the mansion.

“Myn Gott! what does that mean?” gasped the plumber, leaning towards Dorekens, who was stupefied like himself. “I hope he is not going to knock at that door. That will be”—but before he had time to finish his sentence, Dewis already had the knocker in his hand, and let it fall heavily. The blow made the attentive neighbours shudder, and had the same effect upon their nervous systems as an electric shock.

“May all the saints come to aid us!” cried Schuermans. “How will this end?”

“Has Gertrude had an attack of apoplexy?” exclaimed his wife. “Then,”—But, before she could finish, the door in question had been opened, and the basket maker had entered.

In order to understand the astonishment of the neighbours, it will suffice to say that the mansion which Dewis had so audaciously entered was the residence of the archbishop. As it was generally understood that a person must be in an excessively critical position before daring to address this high ecclesiastical functionary, one will easily understand the impression upon the neighbours of such an important act upon the part of the basket maker, who was generally known as rather a timid man. We will leave them for a moment discussing their opinions, to follow Dewis, but before all, we must make known to the reader the reasons which had induced the basket maker to take such an important step.

It was hardly three days after the death of Lyntje, when one night they were awakened by a strange noise, occasioned it seemed to them by some one who had opened the door of their dwelling. They listened attentively. Nothing! The clock of the cathedral was just striking.They counted the strokes. As Dewis was preparing to rise, he heard the cry of the watchman, “Midnight, and all is well,” which convinced him that he was deceived. An instant after, however, he thought he heard the noise of some one slowly ascending the stairs which led to his room. He sat up in bed, listened with anxiety, and tried to find an explanation for these sinister and incomprehensible sounds. They became more and more distinct, and approached nearer the door.

“Who is there?” cried Dewis, with a voice choking with fear.

No answer. A cold perspiration covered his body, his teeth chattered, his eyes were distended, as he tried to pierce the darkness. Suddenly it seemed to him that his door opened. He had no strength to cry out, but waited more dead than alive. An icy wind penetrated the room, agitated the curtains and swept across the face of Dewis. Sighs and sobs commenced. What was it? Had it a form, a body? Was it a human being? Dewis knew not, although he heard only too well the groans and sobs and believed he distinguished steps, but he saw nothing, heard not a word, not a syllable. Nevertheless the strange intruder, the spirit or ghost, continued to moan. It advanced towards thebed, approached so near that the sobs sounded almost in the ear of the terrified basket maker. Then slowly it departed. Dewis heard it go out by another door beside his bed and enter an adjoining room, where it continued to lament.

“Now what was this? An apparition, a specter, or simply the effect of an hallucination?” he asked himself. Again he heard the same noises as before. This time they resounded above him in the attic, then ceased, and at last the house became silent. It will be superfluous to say that after the departure of his frightful guest, he was in a pitiable state. He did not dare to rise, and he could not sleep. The rising sun found him terrified and overcome. As to his wife, she had immediately after the first noise gone to sleep again. When her husband related to her what he had heard she appeared incredulous, and did all in her power to soothe and quiet him. She succeeded in partly convincing him that what he believed to have heard was the result of tired and excited nerves.

But when the following night at the same hour the groans recommenced, he had the presence of mind to awaken her. They both listened attentively. Like the preceding night, the same sighs and sobs were heard, first softly, then they seemed to enter the chamber, goingout at the second door and finishing in the attic. This time there was no doubting that the apparition was real. What was to be done? The basket maker was a member of the society instituted at the cathedral to perform rites for the repose of souls, which gave him the privilege of joining in the processions, covered with a mantle of black silk. He had ever been animated with the laudable desire of delivering souls from purgatory, and did not for a single instant doubt that this was some poor soul in trouble, who had come to recommend himself to his powerful intervention.

But whose soul was this, and what body had it animated in this world? The soul of Lyntje? That could not be. They prayed every day for her, and had resolved to use no more milk, for the repose of the soul of this very regretted friend.

We have said before that they attended regularly every morning the first mass in the cathedral. In consequence of these reflections, they resolved hereafter to hear two masses a day, the second for the soul in trouble which had chosen their dwelling to manifest its desire to be delivered from purgatory. They had a firm belief in the efficacy of prayer, but unfortunately the masses failed to have any good result. Theapparition returned every night, the sighs and groans increased in violence. At first, they were not discouraged, but soon lost confidence in their prayers, and with that, courage. They slept no more and during the days conversed only of the incredible events of the nights, and to complete their sorrow, they dared not speak of it to any one for fear of being called superstitious or visionary. It was not astonishing, then, that the neighbours noticed a great change in the habits of Dewis. Both he and Gertrude became more melancholy and grew thin and pale. Their shop remained shut for days in succession. At last they concluded they could no longer endure this state of things, and accordingly Dewis told his wife that he was going to the archbishop to tell him of the affair, notwithstanding the gossip such a step would give rise to. Far from opposing, she applauded his design. And this is the reason why the basket maker had dared dress himself up in his best suit to make this visit, so well calculated to astonish his neighbours.

Admitted to the presence of this worthy ecclesiastic, he informed him fully of the grave motives which had forced him to take this step. He spoke to him of the remedies employed—the sprinkling of holy water, prayers repeated withfervour, and long masses. He did not hide from him that all this had been of no avail, which had occasioned in himself and wife a certain lack of confidence in their pious practices. In conclusion, he explained the nature of their relations with the deceased milk girl.

The high dignitary listened with patience to the explanations and griefs of the basket maker, and when he had finished made him a little sermon upon his lack of faith in prayers and masses. He promised to come to his house that evening, to see or at least to hear the specter, to exorcise it, and to deliver the house from the obnoxious visitor. His words filled the basket maker with great joy, and if he had not been forbidden, he would have cried aloud in the street that the archbishop was to honour him with a visit that evening. Thus on returning before his neighbours his looks evinced so much joy and pride that Schuermans and his wife, also Dorekens, were perhaps more puzzled than they were an hour before at his profound sorrow.

The archbishop came in the evening to the dwelling of Dewis, and remained very late at night. What did he? What saw he? What was his opinion of the specter, and in what category of phantoms did he place it? Did hisprayers dissipate it? These are questions which it is impossible for us to answer, as no one ever knew what transpired. But tradition says that from that night the house of the basket maker was no more troubled, and everything resumed its customary appearance. They contented themselves with their morning mass, as formerly, and held their usual conversations with their neighbours at the door.

But a few days hardly had passed after the visit of the archbishop when one morning the Milk Market was in great commotion, all the inhabitants formed in groups, men and women talking and gesticulating with vehemence.

“Have you seen it? Have you heard it? What will become of us?” Such were the interrogations which were heard from all. The answers appeared to satisfy no one and only served to increase the general agitation. The milk girls mixed with the groups, neglecting their business to listen with astonishment to the interesting explanations of Schuermans and his friends. It must have been something very grave, for the inhabitants of the neighbouring streets came in crowds to learn the cause of the disturbance. The sighs and groans which hadso long troubled the old basket maker and his wife had been driven from the dwelling of Dewis. Immediately after midnight the specter had promenaded back and forth in the streets, and each time that it passed, had stopped before the door of its friends, and had filled the air with its lamentations. It complained now in a more distinct manner, and cried frequently:—

“Half water! Half milk! Small measure! I have lost my soul!”

It was this the plumber heard, and his wife, and the baker and others. But no one except Dewis could explain these exclamations. He could be silent no longer. He called Schuermans and a few others, and confided to them the secret of what had happened to him. They all agreed that it was the soul of Lyntje alone which troubled the repose of the inhabitants. If it was not, why had it always showed a marked predilection for the house of Dewis? They now recollected that they had often had suspicions of the colour of the liquid which Lyntje sold, and many housekeepers had complained of the smallness of her measure, which applied so well to the words of the ghost:—

“Half water! Half milk! Small measure!”

The following night the same cries and lamentationswere heard. There was no more sleep for those that dwelt on the Milk Market. Many of the inhabitants decided to move immediately rather than continue to reside in a street visited by specters and phantoms. They foresaw the time when the market would present the appearance of an abandoned village—when, happily, the plumber Schuermans had a brilliant idea. He proposed to place upon the middle of the market a monument representing the material form of the soul of Lyntje.

“It was,” he said, “a sure remedy against invasions of specters, and had been proved successful many times.” He went on to explain the virtue of this remedy. “Specters, it is well known, are souls which some crime or sin obliges to wander over the earth until they can find some one who will replace them in this world. A statue serves perfectly well as a representative, and consequently produces the same effect.”

Dewis then made known to them that the archbishop had counseled him to erect a statue of the Holy Virgin. After long deliberations it was resolved that they would place two statues at the expense of the neighbourhood. Before the end of the week they set up both. The statuette of Lyntje was placed over a well at thenorth of the market, that of the Virgin at the south, near the dwelling of Dewis. It is useless to add that from that day they have had no more trouble with specters.

The legend explains the origin of the two images which are still to be seen at the “Marché au Lait.” Several years ago, when wells were replaced by pumps, they put the statuette of the Milk Girl upon the top of the pump. It is a veritable work of art, a jewel. We regret that the name of the sculptor is unknown to us.

THEline of the old Flemish principality ran from Antwerp southwest to Courtrai, but today the line that divides the French and the Flemish speaking Belgians runs due east and west, from Visé to Courtrai, with Brussels midway in its course.

North of the line are the fertile plains and gardens, the busy cities and the factories, of Flanders. Through them flows the Scheldt, the river of commerce.

South of the line are the mines and the mountains, the foundries and the forests, of Namur, Liège, Hainault, and the Ardennes. This is the Walloon country, through which runs the Meuse, the river of romance.

In the north live the stolid, easy-going, devout Flemish peasantry, while in the south are the lively, energetic, enterprising Walloons. They are a larger people physically than their neighbours, more heavily built, and of darker colouring, for there is a strain of Spanish blood intheir ancestry. Many Walloons came to America in the seventeenth century, and we have had few immigrants of better stock. Showalter says that the women are “famed for their industry, thrift, cleanliness, capacity for hard work, and cheerfulness whatever their lot.”

The country of the Meuse and the Sambre is by far the loveliest part of Belgium. It abounds in myths and legends suited to the wild, romantic scenery of its hills and valleys. It abounds also in the villas and châteaux of the Belgiannoblesseandhaute bourgeoisie. The wealthy people of the cities delighted in their summers among the mountains of the Ardennes, while many families of ancient lineage but lesser fortunes lived the year round in their old-world houses.

Some of the châteaux were of exceptional beauty. Our trip to Belœil, the seat of the de Ligne family, will never be forgotten, for it was the finest château in Belgium. His Highness the Prince de Ligne had asked us out to luncheon, and we started about nine, motoring out toward Hal and Enghien.

It was a bright, sunny day, and the country rolled away on every side, checkered with its crops in varying stages of ripeness into fields of green and orange and lemon and brown. The roadside was flecked withred poppies and blue cornflowers, and quaint farmhouses dotted the landscape. We passed deep forests, too, with glimpses of old châteaux through the vistas.

A Village in the Ardennes

At Hal there was a lovely old church, with a Virgin famous for miracles. We stopped and went in; choir boys were singing antiphonally, and there was a sweet smell of incense and a soft, religious light.

At Enghien there was a château which was favoured with a fairyprotectrice, no less than Melusine, so famous in song and story. Long, long ago she married a mortal, Comte Raymond de Forêt, and raised for him a castle which she never ceased to guard. Always before the death of a member of the family “la fée Melusine apparaît sur la terrasse du château.” The Luxembourgs and other noble families changed their pedigrees in order that they might claim descent from fairy Melusine.

Of lower degree but even greater service were the fairies who dwelt aforetimes in a cave at Arquenne. The good folk of the neighbourhood used to leave their soiled linen there of an evening, with some food. In the morning they would return to find that the “little people” had done their work and left the clothes all clean and white.

After passing numberless quaint and picturesque villages we came at length to the gates of the park behind which stood the château of Belœil, with its courtyard and inclosing wings. We followed the road lined with orange trees and crossed a bridge over the moat into the broad court with the façade of the house on three sides. Footmen lined the steps as we mounted into the cool vestibule, from which we passed through various rooms into the handsome salons.

The house was a museum of valuable and historic things—potiches, curios and rare furniture. On the walls were great pictures representing scenes in the story of the de Lignes, and presentation portraits of kings and queens.

Through the windows we could see the wide moat outside, and the English garden opposite with its beds of brilliant flowers and its background of trees and foliage. Soon after luncheon we went out into the sunny glare and the great heat of the open terraces, and crossed into the cool alleys of the French garden.

A great lagoon opposite the main terrace was continued in a vista through the forest off to the horizon, broken by a monumental sculpture which was reflected in the water. The wood was divided formally by alleys leading to somearchitectural or natural detail, and open glades were arranged with pools, while a little rivulet, made artificially natural, went winding through the woods with a pretty path alongside.

The Prince permitted the greater part of the garden and park to be used by the people of his little town, but Belœil was so out of the way that strangers never went there. I use the past tense, because the château has been razed to the ground since the war began. I also learn that two members of the de Ligne family have been killed.

In order to carry out our plans we had to leave Belœl in the heat of the early afternoon. Motoring out again across the rolling landscape we came to Mons, passing on the way through some of the de Croÿ properties and forests. This region is the great coal-mining district, the Borinage, and the beauty of the scenery is rather spoiled by the huge, conical mountains of the detritus which is brought out of the mines, and by the black, sooty look of things.

Mons was a dull, quiet old town, rather picturesque in its way, with its old church and belfry crowning the hill. As we came out of the church the chime of bells in the tower musicallyrang the hour, sounding sweetly in the sleepy silence of the place. The stillness has since been broken by other sounds than those, for Mons figured largely in the battle of the Meuse.

From there we were off once more to visit the ruins of the old château of Havré, once the stronghold and residence of the de Croÿ family. It rose high out of a stagnant moat, all gray and pinkish, with irregular architecture and a tall tower with a bulbous top. From this rose the cross of Lorraine, for the de Croÿs quartered their arms with this great family. The château was quite stately and magnificent, and its courtyard, all grass-grown, must have seen fine sights in its day.

Not far from Mons is Binche, a town celebrated for its carnival held on Mardi-Gras—the festival of the Dancing Gilles. In spite of the fact that it has always been a source of much pride to the Belgians, its only unique feature was that of the Gilles, which distinguished it from other carnivals.

These Gilles, or dancing men, were characterized by their headdress and humps. The former was most striking and elaborate, resembling in shape the old top-hat of our great-grandfathers, and surmounted with magnificentostrich feathers three or four feet long, giving the wearers the stature of giants. From each hat, besides, flowed wide, variegated ribbons. The trousers of a Gille were bedecked with trimmings of real lace, and ribbons matching those on the hat. About the waist was a silk belt from which hung small bells. Each Gille wore a mask.

The entire outfit cost from forty to fifty dollars, which was a large sum for the peasant youths who were generally chosen by the carnival committee. But the honour of being a Gille was so great, since only good dancers could be selected, and carried with it such prestige among the local damsels, that the young men were only too pleased to make the necessary financial sacrifice.

On the afternoon of Mardi-Gras the Gilles, in full uniform and preceded by the local brass bands and musical clubs, appeared in procession and marched, two hundred strong, to the Grande Place, dancing to the music of the band. At every few steps they stopped, bending this way and that to make the bells at their waist ring more effectively. Their streamers floated to and fro with every motion, enveloping them in a rainbow of ribbon. The simultaneous ringing of bells and thumping of wooden sabots onthe cobblestones sounded like the echo of a cavalry charge.

Each Gille had a straw basket hanging from one side of his belt and filled with oranges, with which he bombarded the spectators as he danced along, men appointed for the purpose following close behind to see that the baskets were kept filled. A general battle of oranges between Gilles and carnival merrymakers ensued, lasting till the procession reached the town hall. In front of this, on a platform, sat the mayor and his officials, and here the Gilles terminated the day’s festivities by a sort of war dance which gave them a chance to show what they could do.

The public joined in the fun, and soon thousands of persons—men, women and children—were gaily waltzing around the Grande Place. The sight of an entire population in carnival costume and masked, dancing in the open air to the music of the bands, was not one to be easily forgotten. The sport continued till late evening, when it was brought to an end by the mayor, who formally awarded a gold medal to the Gille who had proved himself the most expert dancer of them all.

From Binche we motored on again, calling on Prince Henri de Croÿ’s cousins who lived inthe château of Le Roeulx, where Prince Henri himself had been born and brought up. Part of this house dates from 1100A.D., and after its destruction in succeeding wars was rebuilt and added to repeatedly. For six centuries the de Croÿs have lived there without a break.

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