parchments, great
vellum tomes, bound in brass; large waxen seals of dead and gone rulers
and nobles; heavy volumes bound in leather, containing the archives. And
also a most curious strong box bound in iron bands, nail studded, and
with immense locks and keys, upon which reclined a strange, wooden
figure with a grinning face, clad in the moth-eaten ancient dress of
Malines, representing "Op Signorken" (the card states), but the
attendant told me it was the "Vuyle Bridegroom," and related a story of
it which cannot be set down here, Flemish ideas and speech being rather
freer than ours. But the people, or rather the peasants, are devoted to
him, and there were occasions when he was borne in triumph in
processions when the town was "en fete."

The ancient palace of Margaret of York, wife of Charles the Bold, who
after the tragic death of her consort retired to Malines, was in the Rue
de l'Empereur. It was used latterly as the hospital, and was utterly
destroyed in the bombardment of 1914.

The only remnant of the ancient fortifications, I found on my last visit
in 1910, was the fine gate, the "Porte de Bruxelles," with a small
section of the walls, all reflected in an old moat now overgrown with
moss and sedge grass. There were, too, quaint vistas of the old tower of
Our Lady of Hanswyk and a number of arched bridges along the banks of
the yellow Dyle, which flows sluggishly through the old town.

On the "Quai-au-sel," I saw in 1910, a number of ancient facades, most
picturesque and quaintly pinnacled. There also a small botanical garden
floriated most luxuriantly, and here again the Dyle reflected the mossy
walls of ancient stone palaces, and there were rows of tall, wooden,
carved posts standing in the stream, to which boats were moored as in
Venice.

[Illustration: Porte de Bruxelles: Malines]

Throughout the town, up to the time of the bombardment, were many quaint
market-places, all grass grown, wherein on market days were
tall-wheeled, peasant carts, and lines of huge, hollow-backed,
thick-legged, hairy horses, which were being offered for sale. And there
were innumerable fountains and tall iron pumps of knights in armor;
forgotten heroes of bygone ages, all of great artistic merit and value;
and over all was the dominating tower of St. Rombauld, vast, gray, and
mysterious, limned against the pearly, luminous sky, the more
impressive perhaps because of its unfinished state. And so, however
interesting the ot