and loftiness, and restored façade, would be the show of any English
town. The Lillois scarcely appreciate it, as a few years ago they
ordered a brand-new one from 'Messrs. Clutton and Burgess, of London,'
not yet complete, and not very striking in its modern effects and
decorations. These vast old churches of the fourth or fifth class are
always imposing from their size and pretensions and elaborateness of
work, and are found in France and Belgium almost by the hundred. And
so I wander on through the showy streets, thinking what stirring
scenes this complacent old city has witnessed, what tale of siege and
battle--Spaniard, Frenchman, and Fleming, Louis the Great, the refuge
of Louis XVIII. after his flight. All the time there is the pleasant
musical jangle going on of tramcars below and bell-chimes aloft. But
of all things in Lille, or indeed elsewhere, there is nothing more
striking than the old Bourse--the great square venerable block,
blackened all over with age, its innumerable windows, high roof, and
cornices, all elaborately and floridly wrought in decayed carvings.
With this dark and venerable mass is piquantly contrasted the garish
row of glittering shops filled with gaudy wares which forms the
lowest story. Within is the noble court with a colonnade of pillars
and arches in the florid Spanish style; in the centre a splendid
bronze statue of the First Napoleon in his robes, which is so wrought
as to harmonize admirably with the rest. In the same congenial
spirit--a note of Belgian art which is quite unfamiliar to us--the
walls of the colonnade are decorated with memorials of famous 'Stock
Exchange' worthies and merchants, and nothing could be more skilful
than the enrichment of these conventional records, which are made to
harmonize by florid rococo decorations with the Spanish _genre_ and
encrusted with bronzes and marbles. This admirable and original
monument is in itself worth a journey to see.
Who has been at Commines? though we are all familiar enough with the
name of Philip of 'that ilk.' I saw how patriarchal life must be at
Commines from a family repairing thither, who filled the whole
compartment. This was a lady arrayed in as much jet-work as she could
well carry, and who must have been an admirable _femme de ménage_, for
she brought with her three little girls, and two obstreperous boys who
kept saying every minute 'maman!' in a sort of whine or expostulation,
and two _aides-de-camp_ maids in spotless fly-away caps. With these
assistants she was on perfect terms, and the maids conversed with her
and dissented from her opinions on the happiest terms of equality.
When taking my ticket I was asked to say would I go to Commines in
France or to Commines in Belgium, for it seems that, by an odd
arrangement, half the town is in one country and half in the other!
Each has a station of its own. This curious partition I did not quite
comprehend at first, and I shall not forget the indignant style in
which, on my asking 'was this the French Commines,' I was answered
that '_of course_ it was Commines in Belgium.' Here was yet another
piquant bell-tower seen rising above trees and houses, long before we
even came near to it. I was pursued by these pretty monuments, and I
could hear this one jangling away musically yet wheezily.
It is past noon now as we hurry by unfamiliar stations, where the
invariable _abbé_ waits with his bundle or breviary in hand, or
peasant women with baskets stand waiting for other trains. There is a
sense of melancholy in noting these strange faces and figures--whom
you thus pass by, to whom you are unknown, whom you will never see
again, and who care not if you were dead and buried. (And why should
they?) Then we hurry away northwards.
IX.
_YPRES._
As the fierce heat of the sun began to relax and the evening drew
on--it was close on half-past six o'clock--we found ourselves in
Belgium once more. Suddenly, on the right, I noted, with some trees
interposed, a sort of clustered town with whitened buildings, which
suggested forcibly the view of an English cathedral town seen from the
railway. The most important of the group was a great tower with its
four spires. I knew instinctively that this was the famous old
town-hall, the most astonishing and overpowering of all Belgian
monuments.
Here we halted half an hour. The sun was going down; the air was cool;
and there was that strange tinge of sadness abroad, with which the air
seems to be charged towards eventide, as we, strangers and pilgrims in
a foreign country, look from afar off at some such unfamiliar objects.
There were a number of Flemings here returning from some meeting where
they had been contending at their national game--shooting at the
popinjay. Near to every small town and village I passed, I had noted
an enormously tall white post with iron rods projecting at the top.
This was the target, and it was highly amusing and characteristic to
watch these burghers gathered round and firing at the bird or some
other object on the top. Now they were all returning carrying their
bows, and in high good-humour. A young and rubicund priest was of the
party, regarded evidently with affection and pride by his companions;
for all that he seemed to say and do was applauded, and greeted with
obstreperous Flemish laughter. When an old woman came to offer cakes
from her basket for sale, he convulsed his friends by facetious
remarks as he made his selection from the basket, depreciating or
criticizing their quality with sham disgust, delighting none so much
as the venerable vendor herself. Every one wore a curious black silk
cap, as a gala headpiece.
When they had gone their way, I set off on mine up to the old town.
The approach was encouraging. A grand sweep faced me of old walls,
rusted, but stout and vigorous, with corner towers rising out of a moat;
then came a spacious bridge leading into a wide, encouraging-looking
street of sound handsome houses. But, strange! not a single cab,
restaurant, or hotel--nay, hardly a soul to be seen, save a few
rustics in their blouses! It was all dead! I walked on, and at an
abrupt turn emerged on the huge expanse of the _place_, and was
literally dumbfoundered.
Now, of all the sights that I have ever seen, it must be confessed
that this offered the greatest surprise and astonishment. It was
bewildering. On the left spread away, almost a city itself, the vast,
enormous town-hall--a vista of countless arches and windows, its roof
dotted with windows, and so deep, expansive, and capacious that it
alone seemed as though it might have lodged an army. In the centre
rose the enormous square tower--massive--rock-like--launching itself
aloft into Gothic spires and towers. All along the sides ran a
perspective of statues and carvings. This astonishing work would take
some minutes of brisk motion to walk down from end to end. It is
really a wonder of the world, and, in the phrase applied to more
ordinary things, 'seemed to take your breath away.' It is the largest,
longest, most massive, solid, and enduring thing that can be
conceived.
It has been restored with wonderful care and delicacy. By one of the
bizarre arrangements--not uncommon in Flanders--a building of another
kind, half Italian, with a round arched arcade, has been added on at
the corner, and the effect is odd and yet pleasing. Behind rises a
grim crag of a cathedral--solemn and mysterious--adding to the effect
of this imposing combination, a sort of gloomy shadow overhanging all.
The church, on entering, is found overpowering and original of its
kind, with its vast arches and massive roof of groined stone. Truly an
astonishing monument! The worst of such visits is that only a faint
impression is left: and to gather the full import of such a monument
one should stay for a few days at least, and grow familiar with it. At
first all is strange. Every portion claims attention at once; but
after a few visits the grim old monument seems to relax and become
accessible; he lets you see his good points and treasures by degrees.
But who could live in a Dead City, even for a day? Having seen these
two wonders, I tried to explore the place, which took some walking,
but nothing else was to be found. Its streets were wide, the houses
handsome--a few necessary shops; but no cabs--no tramway--no carts
even, and hardly any people. It was dead--all dead from end to end.
The strangest sign of mortality, however, was that not a single
restaurant or house of refection was to be found, not even on the
spacious and justly called _Grande Place_! One might have starved or
famished without relief. Nay, there was hardly a public-house or
drinking-shop.
[Illustration: YPRES]
However, the great monument itself more than supplied this absence of
vitality. One could never be weary of surveying its overpowering
proportions, its nobility, its unshaken strength, its vast length, and
flourishing air. Yet how curious to think that it was now quite
purposeless, had no meaning or use! Over four hundred feet long, it
was once the seat of bustle and thriving business, for which the
building itself was not too large. The hall on the ground seems to
stretch from end to end. Here was the great mart for linens--the
_toiles flamandes_--once celebrated over Europe. Now, desolate is the
dwelling of Morna! A few little local offices transact the stunted
shrunken local business of the place; the post, the municipal offices,
each filling up two or three of the arches, in ludicrous contrast to
the unemployed vastness of the rest. It has been fancifully supposed
that the name Diaper, as applied to linens, was supplied by this town,
which was the seat of the trade, and _Toile d'Ypres_ might be
supposed, speciously enough, to have some connection with the place.
X.
_BERGUES._
But _en route_ again, for the sands are fast running out. Old
fortified towns, particularly such as have been protected by 'the
great Vauban,' are found to be a serious nuisance to the inhabitants,
however picturesque they may seem to the tourist; for the place,
constricted and wrapped in bandages, as it were, cannot expand its
lungs. Many of the old fortressed towns, such as Ostend, Courtrai,
Calais, have recently demolished their fortifications at great cost
and with much benefit to themselves. There is something picturesque
and original in the first sight of a place like Arras, or St. Omer,
with the rich and lavish greenery, luxuriant trees, banks of grass by
which the 'fosse' and grim walls are masked. Others are of a grim and
hostile character, and show their teeth, as it were.
Dunkirk, a fortress of the 'first class,' fortified on the modern
system, and therefore to the careless spectator scarcely appearing to
be fortified at all--is a place of such extreme platitude, that the
belated wayfarer longs to escape almost as soon as he arrives. There
is literally nothing to be seen. But a few miles away, there is to be
found a place which will indemnify the disgusted traveller, viz.,
BERGUES. As the train slackens speed I begin to take note of rich
green banks with abundant trees planted in files, such as Uncle Toby
would have relished in his garden. There is the sound as of passing
over a military bridge, with other tokens of the fortified town. There
it lies--close to the station, while the invariable belfry and heavy
church rise from the centre, in friendly companionship. I have noted
the air of sadness in these lone, lorn monuments, which perhaps arises
from the sense of their vast age and all they have looked down upon.
Men and women, and houses, dynasties and invaders, and burgomasters,
have all passed away in endless succession; but _they_ remain, and
have borne the buffetings of storms and gales and wars and tumults. As
we turn out of the station, a small avenue lined with trees leads
straight to the entrance. The bright snowy-looking _place_ basks in
the setting sun, while the tops of the red-tiled roofs seem to peep at
us over the walls. At the end of the avenue the sturdy gateway greets
us cheerfully, labelled 'Porte de Biene,' flanked by two short and
burly towers that rise out of the water; while right and left, the old
brick walls, red and rusted, stretch away, flanked by corner towers.
The moat runs round the whole, filled with the usual stagnant water. I
enter, and then see what a tiny compact little place it is--a perfect
miniature town with many streets, one running round the walls; all the
houses sound and compact and no higher than two stories, so as to keep
snug and sheltered under the walls, and not draw the enemy's fire. The
whole seems to be about the size of the Green Park at home, and you
can walk right across, from gate to gate, in about three minutes. It
is bright, and clean 'as a new pin,' and there are red-legged soldiers
drumming and otherwise employed.
Almost at once we come on the _place_, and here we are rewarded with
something that is worth travelling even from Dover to see. There
stands the old church, grim, rusted, and weather-beaten, rising in
gloomy pride, huge enough to serve a great town; while facing it is
the belfry before alluded to, one of the most elegant, coquettish, and
original of these always interesting structures. The amateur of
Flemish architecture is ever prepared for something pleasing in this
direction, for the variety of the belfries is infinite; but this
specimen fills one with special delight. It rises to a great height in
the usual square tower-shape, but at each corner is flanked by a
quaint, old-fashioned _tourelle_ or towerlet, while in the centre is
an airy elegant lantern of wood, where a musical peal of bells, hung
in rows, chimes all day long in a most melodious way. Each of these
towerlets is capped by a long, graceful peak or minaret. This elegant
structure has always been justly admired by the architect, and in the
wonderful folio of etchings by Coney, done more than fifty years ago,
will be found a picturesque and accurate sketch.
[Illustration: BERGUES.]
It seemed a city of the dead. Now rang out the husky tinkling of the
chimes which never flag, as in all Flemish cities, day or night. It
supplies the lack of company, and has a comforting effect for the
solitary man. From afar off comes occasionally the sound of the drum
or the bugle, fit accompaniment for such surroundings. At the foot of
the belfry was an antique building in another style, with a small
open colonnade, which, though out of harmony, was still not
inappropriate. The only thing jarring was a pretentious modern
town-hall, in the style of one of our own vestry buildings, 'erected
out of the rates,' and which must have cost a huge sum. It was of a
genteel Italian aspect, so it is plain that French local
administrators are, in matters of taste, pretty much as such folk are
with us. One could have lingered long here, looking at this charming
and graceful work, which its surroundings became quite as much as it
did its surroundings.
While thus engaged it was curious to find that not a soul crossed the
_place_. Indeed, during my whole sojourn in the town, a period of
about half an hour, I did not see above a dozen people. There were but
few shops; yet all was bright, sound, in good condition. There was no
sign of decay or decaying; but all seemed to sleep. It was a French
'dead city.' But it surely lives and will live, by its remarkable bell
tower, which at this moment is chiming away, with a melodious
huskiness, its gay tunes, repeated every quarter of an hour, while as
the hour comes round there breaks out a general and clamorous
_charivari_.
XI.
_ST. OMER._
After leaving this wonderful place, I was now speeding on once more
back into France. In all these shifts and changes the _douanier_ farce
was carefully gone through. I was regularly invited to descend, even
though baggageless, and to pass through the searching-room, making
heroic protest as I did so that '_I had nothing to declare_.' It was
easy to distinguish the two nations in their fashion of performing
this function, the French taking it _au sérieux_, and going through it
histrionically, as it were; the Belgian being more careless and
good-natured. There lingers still the habit of 'leading' or
_plombé_-ing a clumsy, troublesome relic of old times. Such small
articles as hat-cases, hand-bags, etc., are subjected to it; an
officer devoted to the duty comes with a huge pair of 'pincers' with
some neat little leaden discs, which he squeezes on the strings which
have tied up the article.
Now we fly past the flourishing Poperinghe--a bustling, thriving
place, out of which lift themselves with sad solemnity a few tall
iron-gray churches, and another--yet one more--elegant belfry. There
seems something quaint in the name of Poperinghe, though it is hardly
so grotesque as that of another town I passed by, 'Bully Greny.'
As this long day was at last closing in, I noticed from the window a
bright-looking town nestling, as it were, in rich green velvet and
dark plantation, with a bright, snug-looking gate, drawbridge, etc.
One of these gates was piquant enough, having a sort of pavilion
perched on the top. Here there was a quaint sort of 'surprise' in a
clock, the hours of which are struck by a mechanical figure known to
the town as 'Mathurin.' There was something very tempting in the look
of the place, betokening plenty of flowers and shaded walks and
umbrageous groves. Most conspicuous, however, was the magnificent
abbey ruin, suggesting Fountains Abbey, with its tall, striking, and
wholly perfect tower. This is the Abbey of St. Bertin, one of the most
striking and almost bewildering monuments that could be conceived. I
look up at the superb tower, sharp in its details, and wonder at its
fine proportions; then turn to the ruined aisles, and with a sort of
grief recall that this, one of the wonders of France, had been in
perfect condition not a hundred years ago, and at the time of the
Revolution had been stripped, unroofed, and purposely reduced to its
present condition! This disgrace reflects upon the Jacobins--Goths and
Vandals indeed.
The streets of this old town, as it is remarked by one of the Guide
Books, 'want animation'--an amiable circumlocution. Nothing so
deserted or lonely can be conceived, and the phenomenon of 'grass
literally growing in the streets' is here to be seen in perfection.
There appeared to be no vehicles, and the few shops carry on but a
mild business. A few English families are said to repair hither for
economy. I recognise a peculiar shabby shooting-coat which betokens
the exile, accounted for by the pathetic fact that he clings to his
superannuated garment, long after it is worn out, for the reason that
it 'was made in London.' There is a rich and beautiful church
here--Notre Dame--with a deeply embayed porch full of lavish detail.
Here, too, rises the image of John Kemble, who actually studied for
the priesthood at the English College.
By this time the day has gone, and darkness has set in. It is time to
think of journeying home. Yet on the way to Calais there are still
some objects to be seen _en passant_. Most travellers are familiar
with Hazebrouck, the place of 'bifurcation,' a frontier between France
and Belgium. Yet this is known for a church with a most elegant spire
rising from a tower, but of this we can only have a glimpse. And, on
the road to Bergues, I had noted that strange, German-named little
town--Cassel--perched on an umbrageous hill, which has its quaint
mediæval town-hall. But I may not pause to study it. The hours are
shrinking; but little margin is left. By midnight I am back in Calais
once more, listening to its old wheezy chimes. It seems like an old
friend, to which I have returned after a long, long absence, so many
events have been crowded into the day. It still wants some interval to
the hour past midnight, when the packet sails.
XII.
_ST. PIERRE LES CALAIS._
As I wandered down to the end of the long pier, which stretched out
its long arm, bent like an elbow, looking, like all French piers, as
if made of frail wickerwork, I thought of a day, some years ago, when
that eminent inventor, Bessemer, conceived the captivating idea of
constructing a steamboat that should abolish sea-sickness for ever!
The principle was that of a huge swinging saloon, moved by hydraulic
power, while a man directed the movement by a sort of spirit-level.
Previously the inventor had set up a model in his garden, where a
number of scientists saw the section of a ship rocking violently by
steam. I recall that pleasant day down at Denmark Hill, with all the
engineers assembled, who were thus going to sea in a garden. A small
steam-engine worked the apparatus--a kind of a section of a
boat--which was tossed up and down violently; while in the centre was
balanced a small platform, on which we experimenters stood. On large
tables were laid out the working plans of the grand Bessemer
steamship, to be brought out presently by a company.
A year and more passed away, the new vessel was completed, and nearly
the same party again invited to see the result, and make trial of it.
I repaired with the rest. Nothing more generous or hospitable could be
conceived. There was to be a banquet at Calais, with a free ticket on
to Paris. It was a gloomy iron-gray morning. The strange outlandish
vessel, which had an engine at each end, was crowded with
_connoisseurs_. But I was struck with the figure of the amiable and
brilliant inventor, who was depressed, and received the premature
congratulations of his friends somewhat ruefully. We could see the
curious 'swinging saloon' fitted into the vessel, with the ingenious
hydraulic leverage by which it could be kept nicely balanced. But it
was to be noted that the saloon was braced firmly to the sides of its
containing vessel; in fact, it was given out that, owing to some
defect in its mechanism, the thing could not be worked that day.
Nothing could be handsomer than this saloon, with its fittings and
decorations. But, strange to say, it was at once seen that the
principle was faulty, and the whole impracticable. It was obvious that
the centre of gravity of so enormous a weight being brought to the
side would imperil the stability of the vessel. The bulk to be moved
was so vast, that it was likely to get out of control, and scarcely
likely to obey the slight lever which worked it. There were many
shakings of the engineering heads, and some smiles, with many an '_I
told you so_.' Even to the outsiders it seemed Utopian.
However, the gloomy voyage was duly made. One of the most experienced
captains known on the route, Captain Pittock, had been chosen to pilot
the venture. He had plainly a distrust of his charge and the
new-fangled notion. Soon we were nearing Calais. Here was the
lighthouse, and here the two embracing arms of the wickerwork pier. I
was standing at the bows, and could see the crowds on the shore
waiting. Suddenly, as the word was given to starboard or 'port,' the
malignant thing, instead of obeying, took the reverse direction, and
bore straight _into_ the pier on the left! Down crashed the huge
flag-staff of our vessel in fragments, falling among us--and there
were some narrow escapes. She calmly forced her way down the pier for
nearly a hundred yards, literally crunching and smashing it up into
fragments, and sweeping the whole away. I looked back on the
disastrous course, and saw the whole clear behind us! As we gazed on
this sudden wreck, I am ashamed to say there was a roar of laughter,
for never was a _surprise_ of so bewildering a character sprung upon
human nature. The faces of the poor captain and his sailors, who could
scarcely restrain their maledictions on the ill-conditioned 'brute,'
betrayed mortification and vexation in the most poignant fashion. The
confusion was extraordinary. She was now with difficulty brought over
to the other pier. This, though done ever so gently, brought fresh
damage, as the mere contact crunched and dislocated most of the
timbers. The ill-assured party defiled ashore, and we made for the
banqueting-room between rows of half-jeering, half-sympathizing
spectators. The speakers at the symposium required all their tact to
deal with the disheartening subject. The only thing to be done was to
'have confidence' in the invention--much as a Gladstonian in
difficulty invites the world to 'leave all to the skill of our great
chief.' But, alas! this would not do just now. The vessel was, in
fact, unsteerable; the enormous weight of the engines at the bows
prevented her obeying the helm. The party set off to Paris--such as
were in spirits to do so--and the shareholders in the company must
have had aching hearts enough.
Some years later, walking by the Thames bank, not far from Woolwich, I
came upon some masses of rusted metal, long lying there. There were
the huge cranks of paddle-wheels, a cylinder, and some boiler metal.
These, I was informed, were the fragments of the unlucky steamship
that was to abolish sea-sickness! As I now walked to the end of the
solitary pier--the very one I had seen swept away so unceremoniously--the
recollection of this day came back to me. There was an element of grim
comedy in the transaction when I recalled that the Calais harbour
officials sent in--and reasonably--a huge claim for the mischief done
to the pier; but the company soon satisfied _that_ by speedily
going 'into liquidation.' There was no resource, so the Frenchmen
had to rebuild their pier at their own cost.