VIEUX BRUGES AND COUNT BALDWIN OF THE IRON ARM
It is not the purpose of this veracious chronicle to recount the
doings and sayings, the incidents or lack of incident, on the voyage
across. Suffice it to say that in due season the good ship _Lapland_
turned its prow away from the white cliffs of Dover and straight
toward the low-lying shores of Flanders. As she crossed the North Sea
scores of fishing boats with brown sails hovered around her, while
throngs of seagulls soared overhead, or now and then dashed madly into
her foaming wake to grasp some morsel flung from deck or porthole, or
fight fiercely with each other for its possession. Presently, in the
haze ahead, a faint outline of land could be distinguished, and soon
we could see through our glasses the heaped up dunes that mark the
battle line between the North Sea and the fertile Flemish polders
behind them. Here and there the shore was strengthened by rows of
pilings to keep the waves of Winter from washing it away. As a
"sight," however, it was dreary and uninviting enough--not at all like
the picturesque headlands of Merrie England we had been looking at
only a few hours before.
Now, for a time, the ship kept its course parallel to the shore, but
at a distance of a mile or more. Gradually the coast became more
inhabited, and soon we could see a row of stone and brick buildings
facing directly on the beach which some one said was Blankenberghe. No
doubt there were other rows of houses behind the first, but either
they were lower, or in the haze our glasses could not distinguish
them. Then the panorama of the Flemish coast unrolled a little further
and we saw the long curved breakwater of Zee-Brugge, with its white
lighthouse. This is an artificial port connected with the ancient
capital of Flanders by a ship canal. Entrance to the canal from the
sea is effected by a large lock which was faintly visible. Another
beach city, Heyst, next appeared--the ship seeming to stand still
while the shoreline marched slowly past. Then came a smaller place,
which from our maps we concluded must be Knocke. Here the coastline of
the present Kingdom of Belgium ends, the little River Zwyn--once
famous as the channel up which one hundred and fifty ships a day made
their way to Bruges in the days of its greatness--forming the
boundary.
The Dutch are apparently not interested in sea bathing, for there were
no more watering places. In fact the whole coast seemed to be dead and
deserted, and we were glad when the _Lapland_ began to turn her prow
inland. We were now in the broad estuary of the Scheldt, and soon the
tiny city of Flushing appeared. It was over on the other side of the
ship and we all scampered across to take our first "near look," as
Mrs. Professor expressed it, of the land we had come to see--for
Flushing belonged for centuries to the great overlords of Flanders,
the Dukes of Burgundy and their successors. It looked very small and
compact from the towering deck of the big liner, but also very quaint
and interesting, and we all agreed that as a sample of what we had
come so far to see it was the reverse of disappointing.
Soon the propellers of the _Lapland_ began to revolve again and the
little Dutch city slowly slipped out of sight in the fast gathering
gloom of a coming shower. As night came on the engines presently came
to rest once more and we anchored to await daylight and flood tide
which, the officers said, would come together. At four o'clock the
following morning the Professor and I were on deck in order to miss as
little as possible of the voyage up the "greyest of grey rivers," as
the Scheldt has been called. The _Lapland_ had started while we were
asleep, and we were already in Belgium. This circumstance disappointed
the Professor not a little as he had set his heart on seeing the
remains of the Dutch forts at the boundary line that for nearly one
hundred and fifty years--from the Treaty of Munster in 1648 to the
French occupation in 1794--closed the river to ocean commerce.
Meanwhile, grass grew in the streets of the all but deserted city of
Antwerp. The French tore down the hated forts and for nearly forty
years the ships from oversea went up the river unmolested. Then came
the Revolution of 1830 and the establishment of the Kingdom of
Belgium, whereupon the Dutch proceeded to impose heavy navigation
duties upon all ships passing through the lower part of the river.
While this did not stifle the trade of Antwerp, it seriously crippled
it, since the duties formed a handicap in the keen competition for
traffic between the Belgian port and those of Holland and Germany
farther to the eastward. It was not until 1863 that the Belgian
Government was able to arrange a treaty whereby all river dues were
abolished in return for the payment of a lump sum of 36,000,000
francs--of which only one-third was paid by Belgium, as other powers
were interested in obtaining freedom of navigation on this important
river and gladly contributed the remainder. The imposing monument by
Winders on the Place Marnix at Antwerp, which was erected in 1883,
commemorates this important event, to which the port owes its present
prosperity.
As the _Lapland_ slowly steamed up the river we could look down from
her lofty decks upon the broad and intensely cultivated plain,
stretching as far as eye could penetrate in the misty distance. Here
and there we could see compact little groups of farm buildings,
usually arranged around a central courtyard and with their outer walls
well-nigh windowless, as if the peasant proprietors still counted on
the possibility of a siege such as their ancestors no doubt often had
to sustain against the wandering marauders and freebooters who for
centuries infested the country. Along every road and canal, and beside
nearly every cross-country path, we could see long lines of trees set
out at regular intervals and cutting the landscape into sections of
varying sizes and shapes. Now and then a little hamlet could be seen,
with its red-tiled roofs nestling close together and a tiny church
steeple rising from the centre. Often the roofs of the houses nearest
to the river were below the top of the high dykes which here enclose
the Scheldt on either side. Close to the banks an occasional fort
commanded the river--outlying links in the great chain of
fortifications that was thought to be impregnable until the huge
German siege guns so quickly battered it to pieces.
Presently some one with a keener vision than the rest cries that the
spire of the Cathedral of Antwerp is in sight and we all crowd forward
and peer eagerly through the mist until at last we make out vaguely
the shape of that marvel of Flemish architecture rising above the flat
plain. At each turn of the river it draws nearer and we can see more
clearly its delicate tracery of lace-work carved in stone, while one
by one other spires loom up through the grey dawn.
The traffic in the river becomes more dense as we proceed slowly
onward--huge red-bottomed tramp steamers with their propellers half
out of the water and churning furiously in a smother of foam, clumsy
canal boats with Flemish or German names lying at anchor close to the
banks, barges with dingy brownish sails and all manner of strange
cargoes. Then, suddenly, we swing around the last turn and the entire
city lies before us, its houses with their high peaks and dormer
windows rising tier above tier, while at the left we catch glimpses
through the lock gates of the vast inner docks with their hundreds of
masts and funnels. Curiously enough the view to the right is entirely
different--the green fields and farmsteads stretching in this
direction from the very edge of the river as far as the eye can see.
But now we are warping up against the Red Star Line pier and all eyes
are gazing down upon the motley crowd that has assembled thus early in
the morning--it is not yet seven o'clock--to welcome the new arrivals
from America. The customs inspection proves to be a mere formality,
half of our trunks and bags are chalk-marked by the obliging inspector
without lifting a tray or disturbing any of their contents. A
commissionaire is waiting to bear them away to the cabs and, after
generously bestowing five cents on this worthy for his trouble, we are
off for the Gare Centrale--for the Madame has decreed that we must all
proceed forthwith to the home of a certain Tante (Aunt) Rosa, not far
from Brussels, where we can get our land legs safely on before
starting on our tour under the guidance of the Professor.
Throughout the morning it has rained heavily at intervals, and as the
_rapide_ for Brussels steams out of the station the grey clouds are
pouring down their contents in torrents. This circumstance disturbs us
not at all, for we have agreed to pursue our course regardless of the
weather and are prepared for anything short of a flood or blizzard.
And right here it may be as well to state that any one who proposes to
travel in Flanders must make up his or her mind to ignore the vagaries
of the weather altogether. At Brussels the weather records show that
it rains more or less during three hundred days in each year, and
while there are many days when the showers are brief, and some periods
when it is clear for several days, it is better to come prepared for
anything. Somewhere in the direction of the English Channel there
seems to exist a vast cloud factory, for day after day one sees the
huge cloud masses rolling slowly eastward or southward across the
country. Usually they are high overhead, with frequent intervals of
brilliant sunshine, and the showers few and far between. At other
times the clouds hang low and dark and the rain falls steadily, not in
furious driving showers such as occur frequently during the summer
time at New York, but with a monotonous continuity that is the
despair of travellers who are equipped only for fair weather. It is no
exaggeration to state that one may look out of his hotel window upon a
cloudless sky and find that by the time he has descended to the street
it is raining. Happily the reverse is equally possible, and frequently
we looked out of the window while at breakfast at pouring rain and
dripping roofs, only to find by the time we were ready to go out of
doors that the shower was over, the sky clear and the sidewalks nearly
dry. It is this rapid alternation of showers and sunshine that makes
Flanders the land of flowers and vegetables, giving the former their
brilliant colouring and the latter their indescribable succulence and
freshness.
Another tip for the would-be traveller in Flanders is to come well
prepared for cold weather even in June, July or August. The nights are
always cool, and the prevailing winds are from the north or the
northwest--the former cold, the latter wet. Many Americans contract
serious colds because they come clad only for hot weather. Warm
underwear, on the other hand, is best for the Flemish summer climate,
with overcoats and wraps for evening wear. Raincoats, it is needless
to say, should be in every suitcase--even for a day's outing, while a
very handy article indeed is a _parapluie-canne_, or umbrella cane,
such as can be purchased in Brussels for ten francs and upwards.
In less than three-quarters of an hour our fleet train was rolling
into the Gare du Nord at Brussels; but Madame was in a hurry, so we
became for the time birds of passage only and in another hour were
already entrained again and speeding toward the steaming dinner that
she assured us la Tante Bosa had awaiting us. Of the reception that we
found when we arrived at last, and of the dinner which was presently
spread before us, there is no need to say more than that the latter
proved to be all that we had been led to anticipate. Served in the
true Belgian style--customary alike in Flanders and in the Walloon
provinces--it occupied our attention for the greater part of the
afternoon, the courses following one another leisurely, with intervals
between during which the men folk strolled about the garden and
smoked. Two days later we started on the Professor's itinerary,
completely refreshed after the fatigue of our voyage; and after a bit
of shopping at Brussels, our pilgrimage into the heart of Flanders
began.
It was a little after noon when we reached the old city of Bruges,
and while we were eating our luncheon the Professor explained
briefly the origin of the city and of the County of Flanders. In
order to understand the kaleidoscopic history of Flanders it is
necessary to forget entirely the Europe of to-day. Throughout the
Middle Ages Europe was sub-divided into hundreds of separate
sovereignties--duchies, counties, principalities large and small,
whose rulers bore a score of titles. These, as a rule, acknowledged
allegiance to some higher prince, while the most powerful yielded
deference only to some King or Emperor. But this allegiance was
usually a very shadowy affair, and the actual government rested
absolutely in the hands of the local Count, or Duke, or whatever else
his title may have been. The history of Flanders is, therefore, in a
sense, the history of its Counts, for as their power waxed or waned
the country itself grew powerful or weak. Gradually, however, the
great cities of Flanders acquired from the earlier and better Counts
rights and privileges that made them, in many respects, sovereign
powers, and the most fascinating and instructive part of the history
of Flanders is the record of the brave struggle made by its burghers
to maintain their liberties in the face of a steadily advancing tide
of tyranny and oppression.
The first Count of Flanders, who won his title and his domains during
the period of storm and stress that followed the breaking up of the
great empire of Charlemagne, was a Flemish chief, called Baldwin of
the Iron Arm. He chanced one day to see Judith, the beautiful daughter
of Charles the Bald, the son of Charlemagne, fell in love with her,
and carried her off for his bride. Judith had been previously married
to Ethelwolf, King of Wessex in England, when he was a very old man;
and had taught her stepson, who afterward became Alfred the Great,
much of his learning. The old King Charles, her father, for a time
opposed the marriage with Baldwin, but finally it was celebrated with
much splendour at Auxerre in 863, and Baldwin was thereupon given the
title of Count of Flanders. On his return, Baldwin built a great
fortress on an island formed by the intersection of the River Roya
with its little tributary, the Boterbeke. This was called the Bourg,
and soon contained within its strong walls the nucleus of the future
city of Bruges.
Mrs. Professor interrupted at this point to ask if the name Bruges was
derived from Bourg, to which our learned friend replied that it was
not, but that most historians ascribed the name to the bridge (in
Flemish, brigge) from the island to the mainland; while some take it
from the purple heather (brugge) which grows plentifully hereabout,
and in August can be seen alongside the railway tracks and in great
clusters by the country roadsides.
The first afternoon's programme was to discover as much as we could of
the old Bourg of Baldwin of the Iron Arm. Not much of it is left in
the Bruges of Albert the First. The Roya still runs where it did in
the days of the first Counts of Flanders, but only along the Dyver, a
terrace of middle-class residences, can it be seen by the tourist.
Since the eighteenth century it has been vaulted over for much of its
course through the city, and the Boterbeke runs through subterranean
channels for the entire distance from where it enters the city limits
to its junction with the Roya at the corner of the rue Breidel. It
flows close to the Cathedral, or possibly beneath it, and directly
under the Belfry, which is built on piles. For part of its course it
runs, like a subway, under the rue du Vieux Bourg. The only building
in modern Bruges that dates from the first Baldwin's time is the crypt
of St. Basil, under the Chapel of the Holy Blood. Here, or assuredly
hard by, the founder of the long line of Flemish Counts, and his
beautiful and talented Countess, no doubt worshipped; and, in the
main, the little chapel probably looks today very much as it did a
thousand years ago. In one corner, apparently outside of the original
outer walls of the structure, the concierge showed us a miniature
model of the ancient castle of the first Counts of Flanders as
archeologists have reconstructed it, with the little Chapel of St.
Basil adjoining it. On the opposite side, and near the entrance, is a
smaller chapel which some authorities state was the one built by old
Iron-Arm, the main structure dating from the middle of the twelfth
century. Be this as it may, here is unquestionably the very oldest
relic of the ancient Bourg and one of the oldest places of worship in
all Flanders.
After our inspection of St. Basil we decided to devote the rest of the
afternoon to tramping around the streets of the Vieux Bourg, or, in
other words, the section of the city within the circle of picturesque
old quays that mark the approximate boundaries of the island-fortress
where the first Counts of Flanders laid the foundations of their
power. To be sure, none of the houses now standing date from a much
earlier period than the fifteenth century, but all were so quaint and
charming that we cared little for the archeologists with their dates,
and felt ourselves transported without an effort to the days when
might made right and the whole world was governed by the simple law
that "he may take who has the power, and he may keep who can." We
little dreamed, as we journeyed about amid these peaceful
surroundings, that within a single month the world was to revert to
the rule of might once more; that, to quote from Kipling's noble poem,
stricken Belgium, and, indeed, all civilisation could say:
"Our world has passed away,
In wantonness o'erthrown.
There's nothing left to-day
But steel and fire and stone.
"Once more we hear the word
That sickened earth of old--
'No law except the sword,
Unsheathed and uncontrolled.'"