hurrying to the train. I note, rising above the houses, two or three
other solemn spires and grim churches, which have an inexpressibly sad
and abandoned air, from their dark grimed tones which contrast with
the bright gay hues of the modern houses that crowd upon them. There
is one grave, imposing tower, with a hood like a monk's. Then I wander
to the handsome triangle-shaped _place_, with its statue to Margaret
of Parma--erst Governor of the Netherlands, and whose memory is
regarded with affection. Here is the old belfry, which has been so
clamorous, standing apart, like those of Ghent, Dunkirk, and a few
other towns; an effective structure, though fitted by modern restorers
with an entirely new 'head'--not, however, ineffective of its kind.
The day is now fairly opened. There is a goodly muster of
market-women and labourers at the handsome station, which, like every
station of the first rank in Belgium, bears its name 'writ large.' It
is just striking five as we hurry away, and in some half an hour we
arrive at ORCHIES--one of those new spick-and-span little towns,
useful after their kind, but disagreeable to the æsthetic eye.
Everything here is of that meanest kind of brick, 'pointed,' as it is
called, with staring white, such as it is seen in the smaller Belgian
stations. Feeling somewhat degraded by this contact, I was glad to be
hurried away, and within an hour find we are approaching one of the
greater French cities.
VI.
_DOUAI._
Now begin to flit past us signs unmistakable of an approaching
fortified town. Here are significant green banks and mounds cut to
angles and geometrical patterns, soft and enticing, enriched with
luxuriant trees, but treacherous--smiling on the confiding houses and
gardens which one day may be levelled at a few hours' notice. Next
come compact masses of Vauban brick, ripe and ruddy, of beautiful,
smooth workmanship; stately military gateways and drawbridges, with a
patch of red trousering--a soldier on his fat Normandy 'punch' ambling
lazily over; and the peaceful cart with its Flemish horses. The
brick-work is sliced through, as with a cheese-knife, to admit the
railway, giving a complete section of the work. We are, in short, at
one of the great _places fortes_ of France, Douai, where the curious
traveller had best avoid sketching, or taking notes--a serious
offence. Here I lingered pleasantly for nearly three hours, and,
having duly breakfasted, noted its air of snug comfort and
prosperity. There is here a famous arsenal--ever busy--one of the
most important in France, and it has besides some welcome bits of
artistic architecture.
It was when wandering down a darkish street, that I came on a most
original building, the old _Mairie_, enriched with a belfry of
delightfully graceful pattern. It might be a problem how to combine a
bell-tower with offices for municipal work, and we know in our land
how such a 'job' would be carried out by 'the architect to the Board.'
But all over Flemish France and Belgium proper we find an
inexhaustible fancy and fertility in such designs. It is always
difficult to describe architectural beauties. This had its tower in
the centre, flanked by two short wings. Everything was original--the
disposition of the windows, the air of space and largeness. Yet the
whole was small, I note that in all these Flemish bell-towers, the
topmost portion invariably develops into something charmingly
fantastic, into cupolas and short, little galleries and lanterns
superimposed, the mixture of solidity and airiness being astonishing.
It is appropriate and fitting that this grace should attend on what
are the sweetest musical instruments conceivable. Mr. Haweis, who is
the poet of Flemish bells, has let us into the secret. 'The fragment
of aërial music,' he tells us, 'which floats like a heavenly sigh over
the Belgian city and dies away every few minutes, seems to set all
life and time to celestial music. It is full of sweet harmonies, and
can be played in pianoforte score, treble and bass. After a week in a
Belgian town, time seems dull without the music in the air that
mingled so sweetly with all waking moods without disturbing them, and
stole into our dreams without troubling our sleep. I do not say that
such carillons would be a success in London. In Belgium the towers are
high above the towns--Antwerp, Mechlin, Bruges--and partially
isolated. The sound falls softly, and the population is not so dense
as in London. Their habit and taste have accustomed the citizens to
accept this music for ever floating in the upper air as part of the
city's life--the most spiritual, poetical, and recreative part of it.
Nothing of the kind has ever been tried in London. The crashing peals
of a dozen large bells banged violently with clapper instead of softly
struck with hammer, the exasperating dong, or ding, dong, of the
Ritualist temple over the way, or the hoarse, gong-like roar of Big
Ben--that is all we know about bells in London, and no form of church
discipline could be more ferocious. Bell noise and bell music are two
different things.' This fanciful tower had its four corner towerlets,
suggesting the old burly Scotch pattern, which indeed came from
France; while the vane on the top still characteristically flourishes
the national Flemish lion.
Most bizarre, not to say extravagant, was the great cathedral, which
was laid out on strange 'lines,' having a huge circular chapel or
pavilion of immense height in front, whose round roof was capped by a
vast bulbous spire, in shape something after the pattern of a gigantic
mangel-wurzel! This astonishing decoration had a quaint and
extraordinary effect, seen, as it was, from any part of the city. Next
came the nave, whilst the transepts straggled about wildly, and a
gigantic fortress-like tower reared itself from the middle. Correct
judges will tell us that all this is debased work, and 'corrupt
style;' but, nevertheless, I confess to being both astonished and
pleased.
This was the great festival of the _Corpus Domini_, and, indeed,
already all available bells in the place had been jangling noisily. It
was now barely seven o'clock, yet on entering the vast nave I found
that the 'Grand Mass' had begun, and the whole was full to the door,
while in the great choir were ranged about a hundred young girls
waiting to make their first Communion. A vast number of gala carriages
were waiting at the doors to take the candidates home, and for the
rest of the day they would promenade the city in their veils and
flowers, receiving congratulations. There was a pleasant provincial
simplicity in all this and in all that followed, which brought back
certain old Sundays of a childhood spent on a hill overlooking Havre.
I liked to see the stout red-cheeked choristers perspiring with their
work, and singing with a rough stentoriousness, just as I had seen
them in the village church of Sanvic. And there was the organist
playing away at his raised seat in the body of the church, as if in a
pew, visible to the naked eye of all; while two cantors in copes
clapped pieces of wood together as a signal for the congregation to
kneel or rise. Most quaint of all were the surpliced instrumentalists
with their braying bassoon and ophicleide: not to forget the
double-bass player who 'sawed' away for the bare life of him. The ever
visible organist voluntarized ravishingly and in really fine style. I
should like to have heard him at his own proper instrument, aloft, in
the gallery yonder, quite an enormous structure of florid pipes in
stories and groups, with angels blowing trumpets and flying saints.
It seemed like the stern of one of the Armada vessels. How he would
have made the pillars quiver! how the ripe old notes would have
_twanged_ and brayed into the darkest recesses!
The Mass being over, the Swiss, a tall, fierce fellow, arrayed in a
feathered cocked-hat, rich _scarlet_ regimentals and boots, now showed
an extra restlessness. The Bishop of Douai, a smooth, polished
prelate, began his sermon, which he delivered from a chair, in clear
tones and good elocution. When the ceremonies were over, the whole
congregation gathered at the door to see the young ladies taken away
by their friends. Then I resumed my exploring.
On a cheerful-looking _place_, which, with its trees and kiosque,
recalled the _Place Verte_ at Antwerp, I noticed a large building of
the pattern so common in France for colleges and convents--a vast
expanse of whiteness or blankness, and a yet vaster array of long
windows. It appeared to be a cavalry barrack for soldiers. The bugles
sounded through the archway, and orderlies were riding in and out.
This monotonous building, I found, had once been the English college
for priests, where the celebrated Douai or Douay Bible had been
translated. This rare book--a joy for the bibliophile--was published
about 1608, and, as is well known, was the first Catholic version in
English of the Scriptures. Here, then, was the cradle of millions of
copies distributed over the face of the earth. It was a curious
sensation to pass by this homely-looking edifice, with the adjoining
chapel, as it appeared to be--now apparently a riding-school. I also
came upon many a fine old Spanish house, and toiled down in the sun
to the Rue des Foulons, where there were some elaborate specimens.
Short as had been my term of residence, I somehow seemed to know Douai
very well. I had gathered what is called 'an idea of the place.' Its
ways, manners, and customs seemed familiar to me. So I took my way
from the old town with a sort of regret, having seen a great deal.
VII.
_ARRAS._
It is just eleven o'clock, and here we are coming to a charming town,
which few travellers have probably visited, and of which that genial
and experienced traveller, Charles Dickens, wrote in astonished
delight, and where in 1862 he spent his birthday. 'Here I find,' he
says, 'a grand _place_, so very remarkable and picturesque, that it is
astonishing how people miss it.' This is old Arras; and I confess it
alone seems worth a long day's, not to say night's, journey, to see.
It is fortified, and, as in such towns, we have to make our way to it
from the station by an umbrageous country road; for it is fenced, as a
gentleman's country seat might be, and strictly enclosed by the usual
mounds, ditches, and walls, but all so picturesquely disguised in rich
greenery as to be positively inviting. Even low down in the deep
ditches grew symmetrical avenues of straight trees, abundant in their
leaves and branches, which filled them quite up. The gates seem
monumental works of art, and picturesque to a degree; while over the
walls--and what noble specimens of brickwork, or tiling rather, are
these old Vauban walls!--peep with curious mystery the upper stories
and roofs of houses with an air of smiling security. I catch a glimpse
of the elegant belfry, the embroidered spires, and mosque-like
cupolas, all a little rusted, yet cheerful-looking. Dickens's _place_,
or two _places_ rather--for there is the greater and the less--display
to us a really lovely town-hall in the centre, the roof dotted over
with rows of windows, while an airy lace-work spire, with a ducal
crown as the finish, rises lightly. On to its sides are encrusted
other buildings of Renaissance order, while behind is a mansion still
more astonishingly embroidered in sculptured stone, with a colonnade
of vast extent. Around the _place_ itself stretches a vast number of
Spanish mansions, with the usual charmingly 'escalloped' roof, all
resting on a prolonged colonnade or piazza, strange, old-fashioned,
and original, running round to a vast extent, which the sensible town
has decreed is never to be interfered with. A more pleasing,
refreshing, and novel collection of objects for the ordinary traveller
of artistic taste to see without trouble or expense, it would be
impossible to conceive. Yet everyone hurries by to see the somewhat
stale glories of Ghent and Brussels.
[Illustration: ARRAS.]
There was a general fat contented air of _bourgeois_ comfort about the
sleepy old-fashioned, handsome Prefecture--in short, a capital
background for the old provincial life as described by Balzac. But the
_place_, with its inimitable Spanish houses and colonnades--under
which you can shop--and that most elegant of spires, sister to that of
Antwerp, which it recalls, will never pass from the memory. A
beautiful object of this kind, thus seen, is surely a present, and a
valuable one too.
A spire is often the expression of the whole town. How much is
suggested by the well-known, familiar cathedral spire at Antwerp, as,
of some fresh morning, we come winding up the tortuous Scheldt, the
sad, low-lying plains and boulders lying on either hand, monotonous
and dispiriting, yet novel in their way; the cream-coloured,
lace-worked spire rising ever before us in all its elegant grace,
pointing the way, growing by degrees, never for an instant out of
sight. It seems a fitting introduction to the noble, historical, and
poetical city to which it belongs. It _is_ surely ANTWERP! We
see Charles V., and Philip, and the exciting troubles of the Gueux,
the Dutch, the Flemings, the argosies from all countries in the great
days of its trade. Such is the mysterious power of association, which
it ever exerts on the 'reminiscent.' How different, and how much more
profitable, too, is this mode of approaching the place, than the other
more vulgar one of the railway terminus, with the cabs and omnibuses
waiting, and the convenient journey to the hotel.
These old cities--Lille, Douai, and Valenciennes--all boast their
gateways, usually named after the city to which the road leads. Thus
we have 'Porte de Paris,' 'Porte de Lille,' etc. I confess to a deep
interest in all gateways of this kind; they have a sort of poetry or
romance associated with them; they are grim, yet hospitable, at times
and seasons having a mysterious suggestion. There are towns where the
traveller finds the gate obdurately closed between ten o'clock at
night and six in the morning. These old gates have a state and
flamboyant majesty about them, as, in Lille, the Porte de Paris is
associated with the glories of Louis XIV.; while in Douai there is
one of an old pattern--it is said of the thirteenth century--with
curious towers and spires. Even at Calais there is a fine and majestic
structure, 'Porte de Richelieu,' on the town side, through which every
market cart and carriage used to trundle. There are florid devices
inscribed on it; but now that the walls on each side are levelled,
this patriarchal monument has but a ludicrous effect, for it is left
standing alone, unsupported and purposeless. The carts and tramcars
find their way round by new and more convenient roads made on each
side.
How pleasant is that careless wandering up through some strange and
unfamiliar place, led by a sort of instinct which habit soon
furnishes! In some of the French 'Guides,' minute directions are given
for the explorer, who is bidden to take the street to right or to
left, after leaving the station, etc. But there is a piquancy in this
uncertainty as compared with the odious guidance of the _laquais de
place_. I loathe the tribe. Here was to be clearly noted the languid,
lazy French town where nothing seemed to be doing, but everyone
appeared to be comfortable--'the fat, contented, stubble
goose'--another type of town altogether from your thriving Lilles and
Rouens.
The pleasure in surveying this extraordinary combination of beautiful
objects, the richness and variety of the work, the long lines broken
by the charming and, as they are called, 'escalloped' gables, the
Spanish balconies, the pillars, light and shade, and shops, made it
almost incredible that such a thing was to be found in a poor obscure
French town, visited by but few travellers. On market-day, when the
whole is filled up with country folks, their wares and their stalls
sheltered from the sun by gaily-tinted awnings, the bustle and
glinting colours, and general _va et vient_, impart a fitting dramatic
air. Then are the old Spanish houses set off becomingly.
This old town has other curious things to exhibit, such as the
enormous old Abbey of St. Vaast--with its huge expansive roof, which
somehow seems to dominate the place, and thrusts forward some fragment
or other--where a regiment might lodge. Its spacious gardens are
converted to secular uses. Then I find myself at the old-new
cathedral, begun about a century ago, and finished about fifty years
since--a 'poorish' heartless edifice in the bald Italian manner, and
quite unsuited to these old Flemish cities. I come out on a terrace
with a huge flight of steps which leads to a lower portion of the
city. This, indeed, leads down from the _haute_ to the _basse ville_;
and it is stated that a great portion of this upper town is supported
upon catacombs or caves from which the white stone of the belfry and
town-hall was quarried. It is a curious feeling to be shown the house
in which Robespierre was born, which, for the benefit of the curious
it may be stated, is to be found in the Rue des Rapporteurs, close to
the theatre. Arras was a famous Jacobin centre, and from the balcony
of this theatre, Lebon, one of the Jacobins, directed the executions,
which took place abundantly on the pretty _place_.
[Illustration: BETHUNE.]
Thus much, then, for Arras, where one would have liked to linger, nay,
to stay a week or a few days. But this wishing to stay a week at a
picturesque place is often a dangerous pitfall, as the amiable
Charles Collins has shown in his own quaint style. Has anyone, he
asks, ever, 'on arriving at some place he has never visited before,
taken a sudden fancy to it, committed himself to apartments for a
month certain, gone on praising the locality and all that belongs to
it, ferreting out concealed attractions, attaching undue importance to
them, undervaluing obvious defects: has he gone on in this way for
three weeks,' or rather three days, 'out of his month, then suddenly
broken down, found out his mistake, and pined in secret for
deliverance?' So it would be, as I conceive, at Bruges, or perhaps at
St. Omer. There you indeed appreciate the dead-alive city 'in all its
quiddity.' But a few days in a 'dead-alive' city, were it the most
picturesque in the world, would be intolerable.
By noon, when the sun has grown oppressively hot, I find myself set
down at a sort of rural town, once flourishing, and of some
importance--Bethune. A mile's walk on a parched road led up the hill
to this languishing, decayed little place. It had its forlorn omnibus,
and altogether suggested the general desolation of, say, Peterborough.
Had it remained in Flemish hands, it would now have been flourishing.
I doubt if any English visitor ever troubles its stagnant repose. Yet
it boasts its 'grand' _place_, imposing enough as a memorial of
departed greatness, and, as usual, a Flemish relic, in the shape of a
charming belfry and town-hall combined. It was really truly
'fantastical' from the airiness of its little cupolas and galleries,
and was in tolerable order. Like the old Calais watch-tower, it was
caked round by, and embedded in, old houses, and had its four curious
gargoyles still doing work.
On this 'grand' _place_ I noticed an old house bearing date '1625,'
and some wonderful feats in the way of red-tiled roofing, of which
there were enormous stretches, all narrow, sinuous, and suggesting
Nuremberg. I confess to having spent a rather weary hour here, and
sped away by the next train.
VIII.
_LILLE._
Two o'clock. We are on the road again; the sun is shining, and we are
speeding on rapidly--changing from Flanders to France--which is but an
hour or so away. Here the bright day is well forward. Now the welcome
fat Flemish country takes military shape, for here comes the scarp,
the angled ditch, the endless brick walling and embankment--a genuine
fortified town of the first class--LILLE. Here, too, many travellers
give but a glance from the window and hurry on. Yet an interesting
place in its way. Its bright main streets seem as gay and glittering
as those of Paris, with the additional air of snug provincial comfort.
To one accustomed for months to the solemn sobriety of our English
capital, with its work-a-day, not to say dingy look, nothing is more
exhilarating or gay than one of these first-class French provincial
towns, such as Marseilles, Bordeaux, or this Lille. There is a
glittering air of substantial opulence, with an attempt--and a
successful one--at fine boulevards and fine trees.
The approach to Lille recalled the protracted approach to some great
English manufacturing town, the tall chimneys flying by the
carriage-windows a good quarter of an hour before the town was
reached. A handsome, rich, and imposing city, though content to accept
a cast-off station from Paris, as a poor relative would accept a
cast-off suit of clothes. The fine façade was actually transported
here stone by stone, and a much more imposing one erected in its
place.
The prevailing one-horse tram-cars seem to suit the Flemish
associations. The Belgians have taken kindly and universally to them,
and find them to be 'exactly in their way.' The fat Flemish horse
ambles along lazily, his bells jingling. No matter how narrow or
winding the street, the car threads its way. The old burgher of the
Middle Ages might have relished it. The old disused town-hall is
quaint enough with its elaborately-carved _façade_, with a high double
roof and dormers, and a lantern surmounting all. A bit of true
'Low-Countries' work; but one often forgets that we are in French
Flanders. Entertaining hours could be spent here with profit, simply
in wandering from spot to spot, eschewing the 'town valet' and
professional picture guide. It is an extraordinary craze, by the way,
that our countrymen will want always 'to see the pictures,' as though
that were the object of travelling.
[Illustration: BOURSE. LILLE.]
One gazes with pleasure and some surprise at its handsome streets,
where everyone seems to live and thrive. There is a general air of
opulence. The new streets, built under the last empire on the Paris
model, offer the same rich and effective detail of gilded inscriptions
running across the houses, balconies and flowers, with the luxurious
_cafés_ below, and languid _flaneurs_ sitting down to their
_absinthe_ or coffee among the orange-trees. These imposing mansions,
built with judicious loans--the 'OBLIGATIONS OF THE CITY OF
LILLE' are quoted on the Exchanges--are already dark and rusted,
and harmonize with the older portions. At every turn there is a
suggestion of Brussels, and nowhere so much as on the fine _place_,
where the embroidered old Spanish houses aforesaid are abundant.