Mynen naem is Roland—als ick clippe dan is’t brandtAl sick luyde, dan is’tstorm in Vlaenderlande.
Mynen naem is Roland—als ick clippe dan is’t brandtAl sick luyde, dan is’tstorm in Vlaenderlande.
Mynen naem is Roland—als ick clippe dan is’t brandtAl sick luyde, dan is’tstorm in Vlaenderlande.
Mynen naem is Roland—als ick clippe dan is’t brandt
Al sick luyde, dan is’tstorm in Vlaenderlande.
“When I ring, there is fire; when I toll, there is a tempest in Flanders.”
“When I ring, there is fire; when I toll, there is a tempest in Flanders.”
And many a stormy reveille it must have pealed over the hive of turbulent craftsmen who swarmed around its base.
Not far from the belfry, is the Friday market (Marché de Vendredi), “the forum” of ancient Ghent, where all its municipal ceremonies were solemnized, and all its popular assemblies were convened, to the tolling of their favourite bell; in which, also, the Counts of Flanders took the oath of inauguration, on their accession to the sovereignty. It was here that John Lyon convened his guild of watermen, and persuaded them to assume the old symbol of revolt, the white hood, in order to resist the exactions of Louis le Mael; and it was here that John Breydel, another fiery demagogue, marshalled his band of “lion’s claws” in 1300, and led them to the “Battle of the Spurs” at Courtrai; and it was here that Jacques van Artevelde, at the head of his “trades’ union,” was proclaimed Ruwaert of Flanders. It was herethat the commotions, so quaintly detailed by Froissart, took place between the fullers and the weavers, on Black Monday, in 1345, when the latter were expelled from Ghent, after leaving fifteen hundred of their number dead in the streets; and it was here that, in later times, the ferocious Duke of Alva lit the flames of the inquisition, and consumed the contumacious protestants of the Low Countries.
In Ghent, almost every great event in the chronicles of the old city is, more or less, identified with the Marché de Vendredi. In the centre of its square, the citizens, in 1600, erected a column to the memory of Charles V, which was levelled by the French republicans in 1794, in order to plant the tree of liberty on its foundation.
In a recess of this market-place, stands the wonder of Ghent, “la merveille de Gand,” an enormous cannon of the fourteenth century, used by Philip van Artevelde, at the siege of Audenarde in 1382; but how it was ever draggedtothe field, or manœuvred in the action, is one of the enigmas of ancient warfare, as itis upwards of eighteen feet long, ten inches in the diameter of the bore, and weighs thirty-nine thousand pounds. It is made of malleable iron, and is mentioned by Froissart as discharging balls during the siege, with a report which “was heard at five leagues distance by day, and ten by night,” and sounded as if “tous les diables d’enfer fussent en chemin.” It was brought from Audenarde to Ghent, having, I presume, been left upon the field by the discomfited Flemings. Its popular soubriquet is “Dulle Greite,” or Mad Margaret, in compliment to a Countess of Flanders, of violent memory, who is still known by the traditional title of “the Black Lady,” given to her by her subjects.
These and a thousand similar records and memorials of the olden time, render a stroll through the streets of Ghent, one of singular interest and amusement; and, perhaps, there is no city of Europe which more abounds in these relics of local history, or has preserved so many characteristics of manners and customs in keeping with its associations of the past.