If any architecture ever expressed the average of human thought,
that of these towns is especially eloquent in its indications that their
inhabitants were very happy and contented. Look at a print of any old
Belgian town or street, and you will at once see our meaning. What a
joyous upspringing of pinnacles and pointed roofs and spires! of no more
earthly use, indeed, than so much pleasant laughter. There is no tower
without its spire, no turret or gable without its pinnacle, no oriel
without its pointed roof, no dormer without some such playful leaping
up into the air. Every salient point attacks the sky with its long iron
spindle, wrought with strange device and bearing a hospitable cup where
the bird makes his nest; and every spindle sings and shrieks with a
shifting vane,--so that the wind never sweeps idly over a Belgian town.
This innocent and happy people did not frown through the ages from grim
battlements, and awe posterity with stern and massive walls. But they
loved old childlike associations and fireside tales. They loved to build
curious fountains in commemoration of pleasant legends. They loved, too,
the huge, delicious-toned bells of their minster-towers, and the sweet
changes of melodious, never-ceasing chimes.
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