THE RAG MARKET AT BRUGES.

Such were the four precious souls, who, like John Gilpin of famous memory,
were

: 5 , “all agog
To dash through thick and thin.”

They had arrived in Bruges the night before ; and the first object of their
pilgrimage was not the Cathedral, not the Belfry which Longfellow has im-
mortalized, with its “ beautiful wild chimes,” not the wondrous pictures by old
Hans Memling that glow like jewels in the ancient Hospital of St. John. No;
none of the famous sights of that quaintest of all quaint Flemish cities, but —
The Rag Market, or Market of Rags.

Laugh if you will. It was the truth. In order to arrive in Bruges for the
Saturday Marché aux Chiffons, the pilgrims had sacrificed pictures, churches,
palaces, anything and everything that might have kept them one night longer
on the road. Their whole expedition had been
carefully planned with this one object in view.

And why?

An English friend, who knew Bruges well, had

told Capable that once upon a time she
found an aune (rather less than a yard) of
priceless Valenciennes lace over a hundred
years old in the Marché aux Chiffons, for
which she paid four francs. And as al
four of the pilgrims loved old lace as
they loved their nearest and dearest
friends, they vowed a vow that they too
would try their luck among the Saturday
rags. Soitwas to the Rag Market that
they were hurrying in old Bruges on

that sunny July Saturday.

Their way led them through
oh s EEN crooked streets of fantastic houses,
y Errs ney Mews = piled wp with red roofs, and saw-
edged gables, and carved fronts,
painted pale-pink or blue or yellow,
as the fancy took their owner; or built of warm old red brick, with many a
graceful molding running up over the windows and doors, and old inscriptions
telling that this house was built in 1702, that one in 1630, that other in 1589.
Then the street opened into the Grande Place—the great Market Square —
with the huge Belfry towering up on the southern side, and casting a black
shadow across the gay booths that covered the wide paved expanse.

For six days out of the seven Bruges is like a city of the dead. You hardly

 
 
 
 
 
 
  

IN THE FRUIT MARKET.