As one approaches my little city from the sea on a summer's day,
one sees only the tall, round clump of trees on the ramparts and,
overtopping it, the old bell-tower with its fantastically shaped
and ornamented stories and dome-top of deep cobalt blue. The land
to either side is barely visible, and the green foliage flooded
with pale sunshine seems to drift in the sun-mist on the grayish
yellow waters. It is a dreamy little town, that once in Holland's
prime had a short-lived illusion of worldly grandeur. Then
gaily-rigged vessels embellished with gilded carvings and flaunting
flags entered the little harbor, fishing boats, merchant vessels
and battle-ships. The inhabitants built fine houses with
crow-stepped gables and sculptured facades and collected in them
exotic treasures, furniture, plate and china. Cannon stood on the
ramparts and the citizens were filled with a sense of their
importance and power as people of some authority in the world. They
bore an escutcheon and were proud of it, they had their portraits
painted in gorgeous attire, they gave the things their terse and
pretty names, and they spoke picturesquely and gallantly as befits
people leading a flourishing elemental life.
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