Up and Down and Up Again

Look on the cover of this book and see the bridge at Tournai, with its

twin towers. In the bright moonlight, the waters of the Scheldt River

are flowing through the arches. Here we have, from the low down to the

high up, a true picture of the Land of Towers, Spires, and of those

collections of bells, which make music in the air, and are called

carillons.

Yet in very early times, in Belgium, there were no bridges, nor any

towers, and no churches, except some buildings rudely put together, out

of wood, or reeds and rushes, plastered with mud. Nor in the flat and

sandy parts, as in Flanders, was there any stone. Few of the craftsmen

understood masonry, or chisel work. Moreover, who could carry out stone

from the mountains, and bring it hundreds of miles, to be cut and built

into lofty campaniles, or bell towers, and splendid churches as in

glorious Italy, from which teachers and missionaries came?

Now, one of these good Italian missionaries was named, in the Flemish

language, Vrolyke Kwant. He was of a sunny disposition, known to all

the children, and much loved by them. He had come from Italy when

Belgium was a very wild country, and he greatly missed the bells, the

towers and air-music of his dear, beautiful, distant land. So he was

often homesick.

But when he heard how kind and well behaved the Belgian fairies were,

and that they liked to help good people, he took heart, cheered up, and

determined to make their acquaintance.

So he gave out that he would be glad to see them all, of every kind,

and welcome them to his house. Knowing that the fairies, who keep out

of sight during the day, were very busy between curfew and cock crow,

that is, after sunset and before dawn, he spread abroad the notice that

he would leave all the doors of his house open at night. If they would

only come to see him, and talk over what could be done to make the

people and their children happy, he would treat them well.

Now it is surprising how quickly the news spread in fairy land,

especially when we think that fairies have no telephones, no telegraph

wires, no railroads, no newspapers nor any messenger boys with blue

caps.

But Vrolyke—to call him by his first name—had not long to wait. After

saying his evening prayers, he went to the front of his house and

opened both leaves of his double door. There could not be, at this time

of night, any danger of pigs or chickens coming in, for the piggies had

gone to sleep and the birds to roost long before. So he unlatched even

the heck, or lower half of the door, and slammed it loudly against the

wall, as a signal to the fairies outside. He had already seen tiny

lights flitting about, like fireflies.

Soon there were two or three gentle taps on the lintels of the doorway,

and then trooped in the funniest looking company he had ever seen.

Kabouters, Wappers, Manneken, and Red Caps. These were followed by a

throng of silvery little ladies, with gauzy wings on their shoulders

and with stars on their foreheads. They were dressed in the loveliest,

sheeniest, garments, and they seemed prettier, even, than any of the

rosiest maidens, which Father Vrolyke, the missionary, had yet seen in

the Tournai region. They were, each and all, of them, dressed in the

garb, which all the fairies of their several kinds have worn for ages;

because fairies are not slaves to fashion. Unlike our girls, who say

they have “nothing to wear” and are obliged to change fashions every

year, the fairies keep the same style of clothes always. It is no

wonder that they are free from care, have no wrinkles on their faces

and live long lives.

Then Vrolyke, smiling his best smile, bowed and offered to set out beer

and cakes—all he had—on his rough table. But the fairies, one and all,

laughed and waved their hands, even those of the Red Caps, which were

green. They replied in chorus:

“Oh, thank you, we do not eat or drink. We came to see what we can do

for you. We must keep busy, you know, or we’ll play tricks on your

people. We like to do funny things with stupid people, but we always

help the good ones. Command us, and we shall obey.”

While they were in such good humor, Father Vrolyke thought it best to

assign them tasks.

So he said, “This flat country needs towers. Such as they have in

Italy. These will add to the beauty of the country. Then we can have

bells, which will call the people to worship; for, over these plains,

the sound will roll far away, and everybody will hear easily.”

Then he sighed and asked, “But where can we get the stone to build and

where are the copper and tin for the bells? Good fairies, tell me and

help.”

“Leave that to us,” shouted the fairies.

Then all those who had no wings, Kabouters, Wappers, Red Caps, and

Mannekins, stumbled out of the house, in the most merry and uproarious

manner. They laughed and screamed with delight. They played leap frog

over each other. Some of the Red Caps jumped on the shoulders of the

Wappers and played riding piggy-back. The winged fairies, in gold, and

silk, and gauze, flew out the door as quietly as if on a cloud, or in a

dream.

Now for ages the solid rivers of ice, in Switzerland, had been grinding

up the rocks to make clay and sand, gravel and soil for Belgium. From

the heart of France, also, there rolled down the earth, which the rain

washed out of the mountains. That is the reason why the river-beds in

Belgium were full of just the sort of material the Kabouters liked to

play in, and of which bricks could be made. They were just like two

children that love to play in the soft mud and make pies and patty

cakes.

Now all the fairies, especially those that had traveled in the southern

countries, wondered why the northern people were so stupid, as not to

make their houses and churches out of stone that would last a long

time; instead of out of wood, which catches on fire so easily, or soon

decays, and falls down.

For, already, there lay under their feet, and had lain there for ages,

the stuff out of which bricks, as hard as stone, could be made, for the

river had brought it to their doors. The fairies, who understand what

winds mean, when they whisper, or storms say, when they howl, declared

that the river clay, in the streams, was calling, calling, calling, and

this is what the voices said:

“Fairies and mortals, listen to us. We were once high and mighty in the

world, and lived on the tops of mountains near the sky; and we expected

to be there always. But Nature drove us out of our comfortable bed of

rock, like as the parent eagles push their birdies out of the nest,

just to make them fly in the air, which is their true home. So, the

storms, and frost, and ice and rain, split us off from the mother rock,

and tumbled us down towards the valley. The snow, and ice, and rushing

waters have ground and rolled and tossed us about, until we have

utterly lost our first form, as part of the mountain peaks. Now, we are

nothing but soft mud, or ‘slyk,’ as the Flemings say. We live low in

the river beds, not able even to nourish flowers, for we are not soil.

“But we want to be again in the bright air.

“Oh, that fairies, or men, would lift us up again high in the sunlight,

and in the lofty heights again, nearer to the sky.

“Or else, mix us with the sand, and then, out of our bosoms, draw

flowers. Either to be blossoms, or bricks, is what we long to be.

“Oh, take us up out of this darkness, in which we dwell under water.”

To their ears, the gurgling of the water and the sounds from the rivers

and streams were, to the fairies, as groans of pain. Now, they would

change these to a song. All they had been waiting for, was an

opportunity, or an invitation. Now they had received it, and that was

the reason why they ran out of Father Vrolyke’s house so merrily, for

here was their chance to do something big. An idea had struck inside

their heads, and had hit so hard that they wanted to go to work

instantly to relieve pressure on the brain.

So right away, they summoned every fairy in Belgic Land to come and

help, and merrily they came. Thousands of the little fellows, mostly

Kabouters, hauled up tons after tons of river clay. They piled it up,

until it made an enormous brick yard. Then they made moulds of wood and

iron, of the shape of bricks.

One set of Kabouters were appointed to mix the clay. Others stood at

the dry dust tubs. From the wet clay, heaped up on a big bench, or

table, a big Kabouter threw down a lump into the square wood or iron

frame or mould, shaped like a brick. Then he shoved the soft brick over

to the Stryker, who struck off, to a level, the extra amount of clay,

just as a good cook cuts off the excess of dough, in the pie crust,

that hangs over the edge of the dish, before she puts it in the oven to

bake. From these benches the thousands of Manneken carried the wood or

iron moulds filled with clay, over to the drying ground. They tumbled

flat the clay out of the frames and laid the bricks, still soft, out to

dry, for several days, in the sun. Every time, as they returned, they

threw the empty iron moulds into a tub full of fine dry clay-dust, so

the wet clay or bricks would not stick, but fall easily, when tumbled

over, flat on the ground to dry.

Another set of Kabouters built a kiln, setting the bricks into piles,

with spaces, like aisles and corridors, for the air to circulate in,

and the flames to reach everywhere, and to every brick, from bottom to

top. Another gang cut down wood and plugging it into these holes set

the fires going, to bake the soft sun-dried bricks into “klinkers,” or

burnt bricks, as hard as stone.

Every night, for a month, they worked, until millions of bricks baked

in the fire, until they were hard enough to “klink,” or resound, when

struck together, and were ready for the bricklayers. That’s the reason

they call a well-turned brick a “klinker,” because it sounds.

Father Vrolyke now took the honorable name of Van Slyk (from the river

mud, now turned into brick), and his reverend colleague took the name

Stryker, and, together, they summoned masons and bricklayers from

Italy. These men piled brick on brick, until walls and towers rose up

toward the sky, and made some of the people think of mountains.

And, would you believe it? Some stupid folks were afraid to walk in the

streets, for fear the walls, which seemed so terribly high, would fall

down on them!

But the builders were not afraid of these piles of brick falling down,

for they held the courses together by the “Flemish bond”; that is,

wherever two bricks met, end to end, another brick was laid on top

between. The middle part of the upper brick lay directly over the

joining place of the under ones. Thus the whole structure was held

together as tightly, as if the bricks had gone back again, to be part

of the mother rock, in the high mountain, whence they came ages before.

So, inch by inch, and foot by foot, the bricks rose up toward the blue

sky and nearer the sun, until, high aloft, the church tower stood, and

the clouds came and kissed it. The sunrise made it rosy, and the sunset

rays gilded it.

Again, in high places of the earth, where winds blow, the clay of the

river bed, now turned into brick, held honored place in the tower which

dominated the Belgian landscape. At night, the top seemed not far from

the stars, and on the apex, or summit of some of the loftiest, men

placed the golden dragon, as the symbol of power. Or, they set the

weather vane to tell whence the wind was blowing and what they might

expect from the wind fairies on the morrow.

Or, in honor of God, they built churches that had towers and

spires—which all the world comes to Belgium to see, because they are so

beautiful. On the top of many, they set the shining cross, symbol of

the Heavenly Father’s love, and of the Unselfish One, who pleased not

himself, but died to make men holy.

The towers became the home of the bells, the throne room of sweet

music, and the abode of the carillons. And so it has come to pass, that

the men of Belgium have listened to the call of the clay, that fell

down from the mountain heights and lay for ages neglected in the river

beds. And, hearing the call, they lifted it up again to the honor of

God and the delight of men. “Up and down and up again,” is the story of

what makes the belfry of Bruges, the “lady spire” of Antwerp Cathedral,

and the glorious towers of Mechlin, of Ghent, of Mons, of Oudenarde, of

Tournai, and hosts of Belgian towers the delight and joy of all the

world.