walls of stone" which once defended the town from the assaults of Philip
the Second. I found with some difficulty a few grass-grown mounds where
they had been, and only the gray, grim tower of the Templars, standing
solitary in a turnip field, remained to show what had been a mighty
stronghold. In the town, however, were souvenirs enough to occupy an
antiquary for years to his content and profit. There was the Cloth Hall,
with its five pointed low arched doorways from which passed in and out
the Knights of the Temple gathered for the first pilgrimage to the Holy
Land. On this market square too was the great Gothic Church, one of the
largest and most important in all Flanders, and on this afternoon in the
summer of 1910, I attended a service here, while in the tower a bell
ringer played the chime of famous bells which now lie in broken
fragments amid the ashes of the fallen tower.
Here was fought the bloody "Battle of the Dunes," between the Dutch and
the Spaniards in those dim days of long ago, when the stubborn
determination of the Netherlanders overcame the might and fiery valor of
the Spanish invaders.
From time to time the peasants laboring in the fields uncovered bones,
broken steel breast-plates, and weapons, which they brought to the
museum on the Grand' Place, and which the sleepy _custode_ showed me
with reluctance, until I offered him a franc. It is curious that famous
Nieuport, for which so much blood was shed in those early days, should
again have been a famous battle ground between the handful of valiant
soldiers of the heroic King Albert and a mighty Teutonic foe.
The dim gray town with its silent streets, the one time home of romance
and chivalry, the scene of deeds of knightly valor, is now done for
forever. It is not likely that it can ever again be of importance, for
its harbor is well-nigh closed by drifting sand. But I shall always keep
the vision I had of it that summer day, in its market place, its gabled
houses against the luminous sky, its winding streets, and narrow byways
across which the roofs almost touch each other. The ancient palaces are
now in ruins, and the peaceful population scattered abroad, charges upon
the charity of the world. Certainly a woeful picture in contrast to the
content of other days.
The vast green plains behind the dunes, or sand hills, extend unbrokenly
from here to the French frontier, spire after spire dominating small
towns, and windmills, are the objects seen. To some the flatness is most
monotonous, but to those who find pleasure in the paintings of Cuyp, the
country is very picturesque. The almost endless succession of green,
well-cultivated fields and farmsteads is most entertaining, and the many
canals winding their silvery ways through the country, between rows of
pollards; the well kept though small country houses embowered in woody
enclosures; the fruitful orchards in splendid cultivation; the gardens
filled with fair flowers and the "most compact little towns"--these give
the region a romance and attraction all its own.
[Illustration: The Town Hall--Hall of the Knights Templars: Nieuport]
Here and there is a hoary church erected in forgotten times on ground
dedicated to Thor or Wodin. This part of the country bordering the fifty
mile stretch of coast line on the North Sea was given over latterly to
the populous bathing establishments and their new communities, but the
other localities, such as Tournai, Courtrai, Oudenaarde or Alost, were
seldom visited by strangers, whose advent created almost as much
excitement as it would in Timbuctoo. It was not inaccessible, but the
roads were not good for automobiles; they were mainly paved with rough
"Belgian" blocks of stone, high in the center, with a dirt roadway on
either side, used by the peasants and quite rutty.
A walking tour for any but the hardiest pedestrian was out of the
question, so I was told that the best way for a "bachelor" traveler was
to secure transportation on the canal boats. This was the warning that
our kind hearted landlord in Antwerp gave us, after vainly endeavoring
to discourage us from leaving him for such a tour.
The canals, however, are not numerous enough in this region, I found,
and besides there are various other disadvantages which I leave to the
reader's imagination.
In addition to the main lines of the State Railway, there were what are
called "Chemins-de-fer-vicinaux," small narrow gauge railways which
traversed Belgium in all directions. On these the fares were very
reasonable, and they formed an ideal way in which to study the country
and the people. There were first, second and third class carriages on
these, hung high on tall wheels, which looked very unsafe, but were not
really so. The classes varied only in the trimming of the windows, and
quality of the cushions on the benches. Rarely if ever, were those
marked "I Klasse" used. Those of the second class were used sometimes;
but the third class cars were generally very crowded with peasantry, who
while invariably good humored and civil were certainly evil smelling,
and intolerant of open windows and fresh air. The men and boys generally
smoked a particularly vile-smelling black tobacco, of which they seemed
very fond, and although some of the cars were marked "Niet rooken" (no
smoking) no one seemed to object to the fumes.
[Illustration: Tower of the Grand' Place: Nieuport]
Here one seldom saw the purely Spanish type of face so usual in Antwerp
and Brabant. The race seemed purer, and the peasants used the pure
Flemish tongue. Few of the elders I found spoke French fluently,
although the children used it freely to each other, of course
understanding and speaking Flemish also.
There were various newspapers published in the Flemish language
exclusively. These, however, were very primitive, given over entirely to
purely local brevities, and the prices of potatoes, beets and other
commodities, and containing also a "feuilleton" of interest to the
farmers and laborers.
There were several "organs" of the Flemish Patriotic party devoted to
the conservation and preservation of the Flemish language and the
ancient traditions, which were powerful among the people, although their
circulation could not have been very profitable. The peasantry in truth
were very ignorant, and knew of very little beyond their own parishes.
The educational standard of the people of West Flanders was certainly
low, and it was a matter of comment among the opponents of the
established church, that education being in the hands of the clergy,
they invariably defeated plans for making it compulsory. But
nevertheless, the peasantry were to all appearances both contented and
fairly happy.
As their wants were few and primitive, their living was cheap. Their
fare was coffee, of which they consumed a great deal, black bread, salt
pork and potatoes. The use of oleomargarine was universal in place of
butter. They grew tobacco in their small gardens for their own use, and
also, it is whispered, smuggled it [and gin] over the border into
France. They worked hard and long from five in the morning until seven
or eight in the evening.
The Flemish farmhouse was generally well built, if somewhat untidy
looking, with the pigstys and out buildings in rather too close
proximity for comfort. There was usually a large living room with heavy
sooty beams overhead, and thick walls pierced by quaint deeply sunken
windows furnished often with seats. These picturesque rooms often
contained "good finds" of the old Spanish furniture, and brass; but as a
rule the dealers had long since bought up all the old things, replacing
them by "brummagem,"--modern articles shining with cheap varnish.
The peasants themselves in their everyday clothes certainly did not
impress the observer greatly. They were not picturesque, they wore the
sabôt or "Klompen," yellow varnished, and clumsy in shape. Their
stockings were coarse gray worsted. Their short trousers were usually
tied with a string above the calf, and they wore a sort of smock,
sometimes of linen unbleached, or of a shining sort of dark purple thin
stuff.
The usual headgear was for the men a cap with a glazed peak and for the
women and girls a wide flapped embroidered linen cap, but this headgear
was worn only in the country towns and villages. Elsewhere the costume
was fast disappearing. On Sundays when dressed in their holiday clothes
these peasants going to or returning from mass, looked respectable and
fairly prosperous, and it was certainly clear that although poor in
worldly goods, these animated and laughing throngs were far from being
unhappy or dissatisfied with life as they found it in West Flanders.
Alost
Alost
The ancient Hôtel de Ville on the Grand' Place was unique, not for its
great beauty, for it had none, but for its quaintness, in the singular
combination of several styles of architecture. Without going into any
details its attraction was in what might be called its venerable
coquettishness,--bizarre, one might have styled it, but that the word
conveys some hint of lack of dignity. One is at a loss just how to
characterize its attractiveness. Against the sky its towers and minarets
held one's fancy by their very lightness and airiness, the lanterns and
_fleches_ presupposing a like grace and proportion in the edifice below.
The great square belfry at one side seemed to shoulder aside the
structure with its beautiful Renaissance façade and portal and quite
dominate it.
My note book says that it dated from the fifteenth century, and its
appearance certainly bore evidence of this statement. It had been
erected in sections at various periods, and these periods were marked in
the various courses of brick, showing every variety of tone of dull
reds, buffs, and mellow purplish browns. The effect was quite
delightful. The tower contained a fine carillon of bells arranged on a
rather bizarre platform, giving a most quaint effect to the turret which
surmounted it. The face of the tower bore four niches, two at each side
of the center and upper windows, and these contained time worn statues
of the noble counts of Alost. On the wall below was a tablet bearing the
inscription "Ni Espoir, Ni Craint," and this I was told referred either
to the many sieges which the town suffered, or a pestilence which
depopulated the whole region. A huge gilt clock face shone below the
upper gallery, at each corner of which sprang a stone gargoyle.
The old square upon which this tower was placed was quite in keeping
with it. There were rows of gabled stone houses of great antiquity,
still inhabited, stretching away in an array of façades, gables, and
most fantastic roofs, all of mellow toned tile, brick and stone.
[Illustration: The Town Hall: Alost]
Thierry Moertens, who was a renowned master printer of the Netherlands,
was born here, and is said to have established in Alost the "very first
printing house in Flanders." From this press issued a translation of the
Holy Bible, which was preserved in the Museum of Brussels, together with
other fine specimens of his skill. A very good statue in bronze to this
master printer was in the center of the market place, and on the
occasion of my last visit, there was a sort of carnival in the town,
with a great gathering of farmers and merchants and their families from
the surrounding country all gathered about the square, which was filled
with wagons, horses, booths, and merry-go-rounds, above which the statue
of the old master printer appeared in great dignity. There was a great
consumption of beer and waffles at the small _estaminets_, and the
chimes in the belfry played popular songs at intervals to the delight of
these simple happy people, all unaware of the great catastrophe of the
war into which they were about to be plunged.
A disastrous conflagration destroyed most of Alost in 1360, and
thereafter history deals with the fury of the religious wars conducted
by the Spanish against Alost, a most strongly fortified town. The story
of the uniting of these Spanish troops under the leadership of Juan de
Navarese is well known. Burning and sacking and murder were the sad lot
of Alost and its unfortunate citizens, who had hardly recovered, ere the
Duke d'Alençon arrived before the walls with his troops, bent upon
mischief. The few people remaining after his onslaught died like flies
during the plague which broke out the following year, and the town bid
fair to vanish forever.
Rubens painted a large and important picture based upon the destruction
of Alost, and this work was hanging in the old church of St. Martin just
before the outbreak of the war in 1914. Its fate is problematical, for
St. Martin's Church was razed to the ground in the bombardment in
1914-15, the charge being the usual one that the tower was used for
military purposes by the French.
This old church with its curious bulbous tower cap was at the end of a
small street, and my last view of it was on the occasion of a church
fête in which some dignitaries were present, for I saw them all clad in
scarlet and purple walking beneath silken canopies attended by priests
bearing lighted lanterns (although the sun was shining brightly at the
time) and acolytes swinging fragrant smoking censers. We were directed
to a rather shabby looking hostelry, over the door of which was an
emblazoned coat of arms of Flanders, where we were assured we could get
"déjeuner" before leaving the town.
As usual, a light drizzle came on, and the streets became deserted. The
hotel was a wretched one and the meal furnished us was in character with
it. We were waited on by a sour, taciturn old man who bore a dirty towel
on his arm, as a sort of badge of office, I presume. He nodded or shook
his head as the case might demand, but not a word could I extract from
him. At the close of our meal, which we dallied over, waiting for the
rain to cease, I called for the bill, which was produced after a long
wait, and proved to be, as I anticipated, excessive. We had coffee and
hot milk and some cold chicken and salad. This repast, for two, came to
twelve francs. And as the "chicken" had reached its old age long before,
and the period of its roasting must have taken place at an uncertain
date, this, together with the fact that the lettuce was wilted, placed
these items upon the proscribed list for us. The coffee and hot milk,
however, was good and, thus revived and rested, I paid the bill without
protest, and having retained the carriage which we hired at the station,
I bundled our belongings into it. I had resolved not to tip the surly
old fellow, but a gleam in his eye made me hesitate. Then I weakened and
gave him a franc.
To my amazement he said in excellent English: "I thank you, sir; you are
a kind, good and patient man, and madam is a most charming and gracious
lady. I am sorry your breakfast was so bad, but I can do nothing here;
these people are impossible; but it is no fault of mine." And shaking
his head he vanished into the doorway of the hotel. Driving away, I
glanced up at the windows, where behind the curtains I thought I saw
several faces watching us furtively. It might be that we had missed an
adventure in coming away. Had I been alone I should have chanced it, for
the old waiter interested me with his sudden confidence and his command
of English. But whatever his story might have been, it must ever be to
me a closed book. Quaint Alost among the trees is now a heap of
blackened ruins.
Courtrai
Courtrai
The two large and impressive stone towers flanking a bridge of three
arches over the small sluggish river Lys were those of the celebrated
Broël, dating from the fourteenth century. The towers were called
respectively the "Speytorre" and the "Inghelbrugtorre." The first named
on the south side of the river formed part of the ancient "enceinte" of
the first château of Philip of Alsace, and was erected in the twelfth
century, and famed with the château of Lille, as the most formidable
strongholds of Flanders. The "Inghelbrugtorre" was erected in 1411-13,
and strongly resembles its sister tower opposite. It was furnished with
loopholes for both archers and for "arquebusiers," as well as openings
for the discharge of cannon and the casting of molten pitch and lead
upon the heads of besiegers after the fashion of warfare as conducted
during the wars of the Middle Ages. The Breton soldiers under Charles
the Eleventh attacked and almost razed this great stronghold in 1382.
A sleepy old _custode_ whom we aroused took us down into horrible
dungeons, where, with a dripping tallow candle, he showed us some iron
rings attached to the dripping walls below the surface of the river
where prisoners of state were chained in former times, and told us that
the walls here were three or four yards thick. The town was one of
beauty and great charm, and here we stopped for a week in a most
delightfully kept small hotel on the square, which was bordered with
fine large trees, both linden and chestnut.
The town was famed in history for the Great Battle of the Spurs which
took place outside the walls, in the year 1302, on the plains of
Groveninghe. History mentions the fact that "seven hundred golden spurs
were picked up afterwards on the battlefield and hung in the cathedral."
These we were unable to locate.
The water of the Lys, flowing through the town and around the remains of
the ancient walls, was put to practical use by the inhabitants in the
preparation of flax, for which the town was renowned.
[Illustration: The Belfry: Courtrai]
It ranked with the old city of Bruges in importance up to 1914, when it
had some thirty-five thousand inhabitants. In the middle of the
beflowered Grand' Place stood a quaint brick belfry containing a good
chime of bells, and on market days when surrounded with the farmers'
green wagons and the lines of booths about which the people gathered
chaffering, its appearance was picturesque enough to satisfy anyone,
even the most blasé of travelers. The belfry had four large gilt clock
faces, and its bells could be plainly seen through the windows hanging
from the huge beams. On the tower were gilded escutcheons, and a couple
of armor-clad statues in niches. There was a fine church dedicated to
Notre Dame, which was commenced by Baldwin in 1199, and a very beautiful
"Counts Chapel" with rows of statues of counts and countesses of
Flanders whose very names were forgotten.
Here was one of the few remaining "Beguinages" of Flanders, which we
might have overlooked but for the kindness of a passerby who, seeing
that we were strangers, pointed out the doorway to us.
On either hand were small houses through the windows of which one could
see old women sitting bowed over cushions rapidly moving the bobbins
over the lace patterns. A heavy black door gave access to the Beguinage,
a tiny retreat, _Noyé de Silence_, inaugurated, tradition says, in 1238,
by Jean de Constantinople, who gave it as a refuge for the Sisters of
St. Bogga. And here about a small grass grown square in which was a
statue of the saint, dwelt a number of self-sacrificing women, bound by
no vow, who had consecrated their lives to the care of the sick and
needy.
We spent an hour in this calm and fragrant retreat, where there was no
noise save the sweet tolling of the convent bell, and the cooing of
pigeons on the ridge pole of the chapel.
In the square before the small station was a statue, which after
questioning a number of people without result, I at length found to be
that of Jean Palfyn who, my informant assured me, was the inventor of
the forceps, and expressed surprise that I should be so interested in
statuary as to care "who it was." He asked me if I was not English and
when I answered that I was an American, looked somewhat dazed, much as
if I had said "New Zealander" or "Kamschatkan," and was about to ask me
some further question, but upon consideration thought better of it, and
turned away shrugging his shoulders.
To show how well the river Lys is loved by the people, I quote here a
sort of prose poem by a local poet, one Adolph Verriest. It is called
"Het Leielied."
"La Lys flows over the level fields of our beautiful country, its fecund
waters reflecting the blue of our wondrous Flemish landscape. Active and
diligent servant, it seems to work ever to our advantage, multiplying in
its charming sinuosities its power for contributing to our prosperity,
accomplishing our tasks, and granting our needs. It gives to our lives
ammunition and power. The noise of busy mills and the movement of bodies
of workmen in its banks is sweet music in our ears, in tune to the
rippling of its waters.
"A silver ribbon starred with the blue corn-flower, the supple textile
baptised in its soft waters is transformed by the hand of man into
cloudy lace, into snowy linen, into fabrics of filmy lightness for my
lady's wear, La Lys, name significant and fraught with poetry for
us--giving life to the germ of the flax which it conserves through all
its life better than any art of the chemist in the secret chambers of
his laboratory.
"Thanks to this gracious river, our lovely town excels in napery and is
known throughout all the world. In harvest time the banks of the Lys are
thronged with movement, the harvesters in quaint costumes, their bodies
moving rhythmically to the words of the songs they sing, swinging the
heavy bundles of flax from the banks to the level platforms, where it is
allowed to sleep in the water, and later the heavy wagons are loaded to
the cadence of other songs appropriate to the work. Large picturesque
colored windmills wave their brown velvety hued sails against the piled
up masses of cloud, and over all is intense color, life and movement.
"The river plays then a most important part in the life on the Flemish
plains about Courtrai, giving their daily bread to the peasants, and
lending poetry to their existence. So, O Lys, our beautiful benefactor,
we love you."
At this writing (March, 1916) Courtrai is still occupied by the troops
of the German Kaiser, and with the exception of the destruction of the
Broël towers, the church of St. Martin, and the Old Belfry in the market
place, the town is said to be "intact."
Whenever possible we traveled through the Flemish littoral on the small
steam trams, "chemins-de-fer-vicinaux," as they are called in French, in
the Flemish tongue "Stoomtram," passing through fertile green meadows
dotted with fat, sleek, black and white cows, and embossed with shining
silvery waterways connecting the towns and villages. We noticed Englishy
cottages of white stucco and red tiled roofs, amid well kept fields and
market gardens in which both men and women seemed to toil from dawn to
dewy evening. Flanders before the war was simply covered with these
light railways. The little trains of black carriages drawn by puffing
covered motors, discharging heavy black clouds of evil-smelling smoke
and oily soot, rushed over the country from morning until night, and the
clanging of the motorman's bell seemed never ending.
[Illustration: The Broël Towers: Courtrai]
To see the country thus was a privilege, and was most interesting, for
one had to wait in the squares of the small towns, or at other central
places until the corresponding motor arrived before the journey could
proceed. Here there was a sort of exchange established where the
farmers compared notes as to the rise or fall in commodities, or
perchance the duty upon beets and potatoes.
Loud and vehement was the talk upon these matters; really, did one not
know the language, one might have fancied that a riot was imminent.