CHAPTER XII

“The rain, my sister dear,The summer rain, warm and clear,Gently flees, gently flies,Through the moist atmosphere.“Her collar of white pearlsHas come undone in the skies.Blackbirds, sing with all your might,Dance, magpies!Among the branches downward pressed,Dance, flowers, dance, every nest,All that comes from the skies is blest.”

“The rain, my sister dear,The summer rain, warm and clear,Gently flees, gently flies,Through the moist atmosphere.

“The rain, my sister dear,

The summer rain, warm and clear,

Gently flees, gently flies,

Through the moist atmosphere.

“Her collar of white pearlsHas come undone in the skies.Blackbirds, sing with all your might,Dance, magpies!Among the branches downward pressed,Dance, flowers, dance, every nest,All that comes from the skies is blest.”

“Her collar of white pearls

Has come undone in the skies.

Blackbirds, sing with all your might,

Dance, magpies!

Among the branches downward pressed,

Dance, flowers, dance, every nest,

All that comes from the skies is blest.”

“Fernand Severin, who was lecturer in French literature at the University of Ghent, is a poet of great charm. His diction is apparently that of Racine, but in substance he is essentially modern.” The following lines, from the translation by Bithell, will give an idea of the grace and beauty of his style:

“Her sweet voice was a music in mine ear;And in the perfume of the atmosphereWhich, in that eve, her shadowy presence shed,’Sister of mystery,’ trembling I said,’Too like an angel to be what you seem,Go not away too soon, beloved dream!’”

“Her sweet voice was a music in mine ear;And in the perfume of the atmosphereWhich, in that eve, her shadowy presence shed,’Sister of mystery,’ trembling I said,’Too like an angel to be what you seem,Go not away too soon, beloved dream!’”

“Her sweet voice was a music in mine ear;

And in the perfume of the atmosphere

Which, in that eve, her shadowy presence shed,

’Sister of mystery,’ trembling I said,

’Too like an angel to be what you seem,

Go not away too soon, beloved dream!’”

Albert Mockel is a fine musician and an excellent critic, as well as a good poet, a combination which is very rare. He is learned, subtle and brilliant. “Chantefable un peu Naïve” and “Clartés” contain musical notations of rhythms.

I give here part of one of his poems called

THE CHANDELIER“Jewels, ribbons, naked necks,And the living bouquet that the corsage decks;Women, undulating the soft melodyOf gestures languishing, surrendering—And the vain, scattered patter of swift words—Silken vestures floating, faces bright,Furtive converse, gliding glances, futile kissOf eyes that flitting round alight like birds,And flee, and come again coquettishly;Laughter, and lying ... and all flying awayTo the strains that spin the frivolous swarm around.”

THE CHANDELIER

THE CHANDELIER

“Jewels, ribbons, naked necks,And the living bouquet that the corsage decks;Women, undulating the soft melodyOf gestures languishing, surrendering—And the vain, scattered patter of swift words—Silken vestures floating, faces bright,Furtive converse, gliding glances, futile kissOf eyes that flitting round alight like birds,And flee, and come again coquettishly;Laughter, and lying ... and all flying awayTo the strains that spin the frivolous swarm around.”

“Jewels, ribbons, naked necks,

And the living bouquet that the corsage decks;

Women, undulating the soft melody

Of gestures languishing, surrendering—

And the vain, scattered patter of swift words—

Silken vestures floating, faces bright,

Furtive converse, gliding glances, futile kiss

Of eyes that flitting round alight like birds,

And flee, and come again coquettishly;

Laughter, and lying ... and all flying away

To the strains that spin the frivolous swarm around.”

I also give an extract from his “Song of Running Water,” that is quite lovely.

“O forest! O sweet forest, thou invitest me to restAnd linger in thy shade with moss and shavegrass dressed,Imprisoning me in swoon of soft caressesThat o’er me droop thy dense and leafy tresses.”

“O forest! O sweet forest, thou invitest me to restAnd linger in thy shade with moss and shavegrass dressed,Imprisoning me in swoon of soft caressesThat o’er me droop thy dense and leafy tresses.”

“O forest! O sweet forest, thou invitest me to rest

And linger in thy shade with moss and shavegrass dressed,

Imprisoning me in swoon of soft caresses

That o’er me droop thy dense and leafy tresses.”

“Verhaeren is the triumph of the Belgian race, the greatest of modern poets,” writesStefan Zweig, who has translated many of his works. Verhaeren is much admired by the Germans and Austrians, but is not so well known in this country, as few of his books have been translated into English. As Rubens with his brush depicted carousals and excesses, so did Verhaeren depict the wildness and madness of youth with his clever pen.

Emile Verhaeren was born in Flanders at St. Amand on the Scheldt, the twenty-first of May, 1855. His parents were considered well-to-do and owned a house and garden of their own on the edge of the town, overlooking the yellow cornfields and the wide river. It was here Emile’s boyhood was spent, watching the peasants sow and reap, and the white sails of the boats slowly drifting down to the great ocean. He was blue-eyed and golden-haired in those days. The people loved him then, and they love him now. As a boy he was sent to the Jesuit College of Sainte Barbe, in Ghent, and it was hoped that he might in time join the order. There he began writing verses, and there too he met the poet, Georges Rodenbach, and Maeterlinck and Charles van Lerberghe, all of whom later became famous. Emile refused to become a priest and he did not wish to enter his uncle’s workshop, so when his courses werefinished at Sainte Barbe, he was sent to Louvain to study law. His student days were wild in the extreme.

EMILE VERHAEREN.

EMILE VERHAEREN.

In 1881 he went to Brussels to practice, but he was not a success as a lawyer. Here he met artists and authors, and like many poets became eccentric in his dress. “Les Flamandes” is the name of his first book. When it was published his conservative parents were scandalized and the critics were very severe, but all had to admit the primitive vitality and savage strength of his work. “Les Moines” is his second book. These sonnets describe the monks and are unlike his other poems.

As Verhaeren was unbridled in his studies as well as his follies, he had a severe nervous breakdown. While convalescing he wrote “Les Soirs, Les Débâcles, Les Flambeaux Noirs,” which are extraordinary descriptions of his physical and mental sensations during his illness.

After he recovered he married and traveled in Europe and in England. Then for a time he gave lectures at the Université Libre in Brussels.

“Les Villes Tentaculaires,” which describes the monster city, is called magnificent. “Les Aubes” and the “Campagnes Hallucinées”were published at the same time, and “La Foule” and “Vers la Mer” in the book entitled “Les Visages de la Vie” are also fine.

Among Verhaeren’s plays, “Le Cloître” is taken from his book of poems, called “Les Moines.” It is peculiar in having no woman in the cast, but it was well given and proved successful. “Les Aubes” and “Hélène de Sparte” were others of his plays.

The three following poems by this author are marvelous pieces of description and thoroughly characteristic of Belgium:

A CORNER OF THE QUAY“When the wind sulks, and the dune dries,The old salts with uneasy eyesHour after hour peer at the skies.“All are silent; their hands turning,A brown juice from their lips they wipe;Never a sound save, in their pipe,The dry tobacco burning.“That storm the almanac announces,Where is it? They are puzzled.The sea has smoothed her flounces.Winter is muzzled.“The cute ones shake their pate,And cross their arms, and puff,But mate by mate they wait,And think the squall is late,But coming sure enough.“With fingers slow, sedate,Their finished pipe they fill;Pursuing, every salt,Without a minute’s halt,The same idea still.“A boat sails up the bay,As tranquil as the day;Its keel a long net trails,Covered with glittering scales.“Out come the men: What ho?When will the tempest come?With pipe in mouth, still dumb?With bare foot on sabot,The salts wait in a row.“Here they lounge about,Where all year long the stoutFishers’ damesSell, from their wooden frames,Herrings and anchovies,And by each stall a stove is,To warm them with its flames.“Here they spit together,Spying out the weather.Here they yawn and doze;Backs bent with many a squall,Rubbing it in rows,Grease the wall.“And though the almanacIs wrong about the squall,The old salts lean their backAgainst the wall,And wait in rows together,Watching the sea and the weather.”

A CORNER OF THE QUAY

A CORNER OF THE QUAY

“When the wind sulks, and the dune dries,The old salts with uneasy eyesHour after hour peer at the skies.

“When the wind sulks, and the dune dries,

The old salts with uneasy eyes

Hour after hour peer at the skies.

“All are silent; their hands turning,A brown juice from their lips they wipe;Never a sound save, in their pipe,The dry tobacco burning.

“All are silent; their hands turning,

A brown juice from their lips they wipe;

Never a sound save, in their pipe,

The dry tobacco burning.

“That storm the almanac announces,Where is it? They are puzzled.The sea has smoothed her flounces.Winter is muzzled.

“That storm the almanac announces,

Where is it? They are puzzled.

The sea has smoothed her flounces.

Winter is muzzled.

“The cute ones shake their pate,And cross their arms, and puff,But mate by mate they wait,And think the squall is late,But coming sure enough.

“The cute ones shake their pate,

And cross their arms, and puff,

But mate by mate they wait,

And think the squall is late,

But coming sure enough.

“With fingers slow, sedate,Their finished pipe they fill;Pursuing, every salt,Without a minute’s halt,The same idea still.

“With fingers slow, sedate,

Their finished pipe they fill;

Pursuing, every salt,

Without a minute’s halt,

The same idea still.

“A boat sails up the bay,As tranquil as the day;Its keel a long net trails,Covered with glittering scales.

“A boat sails up the bay,

As tranquil as the day;

Its keel a long net trails,

Covered with glittering scales.

“Out come the men: What ho?When will the tempest come?With pipe in mouth, still dumb?With bare foot on sabot,The salts wait in a row.

“Out come the men: What ho?

When will the tempest come?

With pipe in mouth, still dumb?

With bare foot on sabot,

The salts wait in a row.

“Here they lounge about,Where all year long the stoutFishers’ damesSell, from their wooden frames,Herrings and anchovies,And by each stall a stove is,To warm them with its flames.

“Here they lounge about,

Where all year long the stout

Fishers’ dames

Sell, from their wooden frames,

Herrings and anchovies,

And by each stall a stove is,

To warm them with its flames.

“Here they spit together,Spying out the weather.Here they yawn and doze;Backs bent with many a squall,Rubbing it in rows,Grease the wall.

“Here they spit together,

Spying out the weather.

Here they yawn and doze;

Backs bent with many a squall,

Rubbing it in rows,

Grease the wall.

“And though the almanacIs wrong about the squall,The old salts lean their backAgainst the wall,And wait in rows together,Watching the sea and the weather.”

“And though the almanac

Is wrong about the squall,

The old salts lean their back

Against the wall,

And wait in rows together,

Watching the sea and the weather.”

FOGS“You melancholy fogs of winter rollYour pestilential sorrow o’er my soul,And swathe my heart with your long winding sheet,And drench the livid leaves beneath my feet,While far away upon the heaven’s bounds,Under the sleeping plain’s wet wadding, soundsA tired, lamenting angelus that diesWith faint, frail echoes in the empty skies,So lonely, poor, and timid that a rook,Hid in a hollow archstone’s dripping nook,Hearing it sob, awakens and replies,Sickening the woeful hush with ghastly cries,Then suddenly grows silent, in the dread,That in the belfry tower the bell is dead.”

FOGS

FOGS

“You melancholy fogs of winter rollYour pestilential sorrow o’er my soul,And swathe my heart with your long winding sheet,And drench the livid leaves beneath my feet,While far away upon the heaven’s bounds,Under the sleeping plain’s wet wadding, soundsA tired, lamenting angelus that diesWith faint, frail echoes in the empty skies,So lonely, poor, and timid that a rook,Hid in a hollow archstone’s dripping nook,Hearing it sob, awakens and replies,Sickening the woeful hush with ghastly cries,Then suddenly grows silent, in the dread,That in the belfry tower the bell is dead.”

“You melancholy fogs of winter roll

Your pestilential sorrow o’er my soul,

And swathe my heart with your long winding sheet,

And drench the livid leaves beneath my feet,

While far away upon the heaven’s bounds,

Under the sleeping plain’s wet wadding, sounds

A tired, lamenting angelus that dies

With faint, frail echoes in the empty skies,

So lonely, poor, and timid that a rook,

Hid in a hollow archstone’s dripping nook,

Hearing it sob, awakens and replies,

Sickening the woeful hush with ghastly cries,

Then suddenly grows silent, in the dread,

That in the belfry tower the bell is dead.”

THE OLD MASTERS“In smoky inns whose loft is reached by ladders,And with a grimy ceiling splashed by shocksOf hanging hams, black puddings, onions, bladders,Rosaries of stuffed game, capons, geese, and cocks,Around a groaning table sit the gluttonsBefore the bleeding viands stuck with forks,Already loosening their waistcoat buttons,With wet mouths when from flagons leap the corks—Teniers, and Brackenburgh, and Brauwer, shakenWith listening to Jan Steen’s uproarious wit,Holding their bellies dithering with bacon,Wiping their chins, watching the hissing spit.*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *“Men, women, children, all stuffed full to bursting;Appetites ravening, and instincts rife,Furies of stomach, and of throats athirsting,Debauchery, explosion of rich life,In which these master gluttons, never sated,Too genuine for insipidities,Pitching their easels lustily, createdBetween two drinking bouts a masterpiece.”

THE OLD MASTERS

THE OLD MASTERS

“In smoky inns whose loft is reached by ladders,And with a grimy ceiling splashed by shocksOf hanging hams, black puddings, onions, bladders,Rosaries of stuffed game, capons, geese, and cocks,Around a groaning table sit the gluttonsBefore the bleeding viands stuck with forks,Already loosening their waistcoat buttons,With wet mouths when from flagons leap the corks—Teniers, and Brackenburgh, and Brauwer, shakenWith listening to Jan Steen’s uproarious wit,Holding their bellies dithering with bacon,Wiping their chins, watching the hissing spit.*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *“Men, women, children, all stuffed full to bursting;Appetites ravening, and instincts rife,Furies of stomach, and of throats athirsting,Debauchery, explosion of rich life,In which these master gluttons, never sated,Too genuine for insipidities,Pitching their easels lustily, createdBetween two drinking bouts a masterpiece.”

“In smoky inns whose loft is reached by ladders,

And with a grimy ceiling splashed by shocks

Of hanging hams, black puddings, onions, bladders,

Rosaries of stuffed game, capons, geese, and cocks,

Around a groaning table sit the gluttons

Before the bleeding viands stuck with forks,

Already loosening their waistcoat buttons,

With wet mouths when from flagons leap the corks—

Teniers, and Brackenburgh, and Brauwer, shaken

With listening to Jan Steen’s uproarious wit,

Holding their bellies dithering with bacon,

Wiping their chins, watching the hissing spit.

*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

“Men, women, children, all stuffed full to bursting;

Appetites ravening, and instincts rife,

Furies of stomach, and of throats athirsting,

Debauchery, explosion of rich life,

In which these master gluttons, never sated,

Too genuine for insipidities,

Pitching their easels lustily, created

Between two drinking bouts a masterpiece.”

Even amid the ruins of their country, Belgian writers, like the Belgian people, are indomitable. Verhaeren, from his retreat in London, sends out words that are a pæan of victory, and the bugle note of “Chantons, Belges, chantons!” by another author, is a call to great deeds in the future.

MOTORING IN FLANDERS“O little towns, obscure and quaint,Writ on the map in script so faint,Today in types how large, how red,On battle scroll your titles spread!”

MOTORING IN FLANDERS

MOTORING IN FLANDERS

“O little towns, obscure and quaint,Writ on the map in script so faint,Today in types how large, how red,On battle scroll your titles spread!”

“O little towns, obscure and quaint,

Writ on the map in script so faint,

Today in types how large, how red,

On battle scroll your titles spread!”

BRUSSELSis ideally located for the motorist. From it both the Flemish and the Walloon districts could easily be reached. To be sure, the towns were paved with the famous Belgian blocks, but the roads outside the towns were in excellent condition. One of our favourite trips was to Antwerp, where we went often, either to meet people landing from steamers from America or to look up boxes shipped us from home.

A bit aside from the direct route between the two cities, but well worth going out of one’s way to see, was Louvain. Baedeker speaks of it as “a dull place with 42,000 inhabitants,” but we found it delightful. It was a pretty old town, with its richly fretted Hôtel de Ville, thefinest in Belgium, its university and library, its impressive church in the center of the city, and the innumerable other gray old churches with their long sloping roofs. The streets were narrow, picturesque and rather dirty. They were lined with the high walls and closed windows of convent after convent, and there were huge clusters of monastic buildings on the hills about, many of these newly built and modern. The whole town seethed with black-robed priests, brown-robed, bare-footed monks, and white-coped nuns.

In the Middle Ages Louvain had four times its present population; its once famous university had diminished in the same proportion. There was a time when no man might hold public office in the Austrian Netherlands who did not have a degree from the University of Louvain.

Of the two thousand cloth factories which made the city a hive of industry during the thirteen hundreds but little sign remained when we were there. During the fifteenth century it was the largest city west of the Alps. The walls were built at the period of greatest prosperity, and much of the land which they inclosed had been turned into gardens, showing how the population had decreased. It was said that howevermuch outward change there had been, however, in the Abbey of the White Canons the spirit of “religious mediævalism” was still to be found, untouched by modern thought.

Southey describes the town hall at Louvain as an “architectural bijou ... like a thing of ivory or filigree designed for a lady’s dressing table.” This building seems to have passed through the war unscathed. But the famous library of the university, which was one of the most noted in Europe, containing over a hundred thousand rare manuscripts, was completely destroyed.

Not far from Brussels, and on the direct road to Antwerp, is Vilvorde, a small town, chiefly noted as the scene of the martyrdom of Tyndale, the famous Englishman who attempted the translation of the Bible, and for this was imprisoned and later burned at the stake by the Church. His last words were, “Lord, open the King of England’s eyes!” It seems as if his prayer must have been heard, because within a year—in 1537—the King ordered the publication of the Bible and its use in all the churches of the land.

Halfway between Brussels and Antwerp is Malines, perhaps better known to us by its Dutch name of Mechlin. Every house had its makerof lace; they could be seen on pleasant days sitting on low stools out of doors among the flowers, singing as they worked.

The tower of the beautiful old cathedral, which was erected in 1312, was intended to be the highest in all Christendom, but was never completed. Its carillon, however, was second only to that of Bruges. The church was dedicated to St. Rombaut, who was supposed to have built it. The story was that in paying his workmen he never took from his pockets more than tencensat a time, and the men, thinking he must have a large number of the coins upon his person, murdered him for the booty. To their disappointment they found he had just one coin, for the saint, each time he needed money, had worked a miracle similar to that of Jesus and the fishes! A discrepancy of some three or four hundred years between the time of the good saint’s life and the building of the church is a trifle confusing. This cathedral has been destroyed.

We set out for a direct trip to Antwerp one morning at eight, and reached there after a fine run of an hour and a half through the fair green country. All along the way the towns were gaily decorated and beflagged for a holiday. The city itself was alive with traffic, whilethe river and the canals were crowded with moving boats.

Just opposite the station was the famous Zoo. A band concert was going on, and crowds sat drinking tea or beer beneath the trees, listening to the music, which was interrupted every once in a while by the raucous cry of some wild creature in its cage. All the animals were killed before the siege of the city in October.

A service was being held in the great cathedral. There was lovely music, and a solemn light fell on Rubens’ great masterpiece. The church was two hundred and fifty years in building, and is the largest in the Low Countries. Fortunately we can still use the present tense in speaking of Antwerp Cathedral, for it survived both the bombardment and the conflagration that ensued.

Antwerp came into prominence only after Bruges, Ghent and Ypres entered upon their long decline. The architectural gem of the city was the Plantyn-Moretus Museum, once the printing works of Christopher Plantyn and his son-in-law Moretus, who did such notable work in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The rooms of the old house had been restored quite in the old style, so that you felt the quiet, peaceful atmosphere of other days.

CORNER OF THE COURTYARD, PLANTYN-MORETUS MUSEUM, ANTWERP.

CORNER OF THE COURTYARD, PLANTYN-MORETUS MUSEUM, ANTWERP.

The history of Antwerp goes back some thirteen hundred years, but it was not until the seventeenth century that it gained the right to be called the richest and most prosperous city in Europe. After that it, too, like so many of its sister cities, fell asleep; but these days were of brief duration, for in the middle of the nineteenth century the Belgian Government bought the right to use the Scheldt, and it awoke to new life. When the war broke out it was the greatest port on the continent, and surpassed only by London and New York in the world.

Its social life was a striking contrast to that of Brussels, for it was strongly Flemish in thought and feeling, as well as in speech, while the national capital was like a French city.

Antwerp was of great strategic importance, for the mouth of the Scheldt is opposite the mouth of the Thames. Napoleon realized this. “Antwerp might be made a pistol directed at the heart of England,” he said. Indeed, before it fell into the hands of the Germans a military expert prophesied that within two months of its fall the English would be suing for peace. The city had been made the chief arsenal of Belgium, and one of the strongest fortresses in Europe. At the beginning of the attack the suburbs, which were particularly beautiful, were destroyedand covered with pits and wire entanglements by the defenders. Tens of millions of dollars’ worth of property was laid waste, and nothing gained, for the city was bombarded from a distance and no infantry attacks were made.

One summer day we started out in the motor for Ostend. Out across the flat country, through forests and fields and villages, we passed through Termonde where, a few centuries before, they had opened the sluices and driven back the army of Louis XIV by flooding the country.

Ghent was our first stopping place. In the Cathedral of St. Bavon hung the Adoration of the Lamb, by the van Eycks—the most celebrated of Belgium’s pictures. A few buildings still remained which recalled the former glory of the burghers of Ghent. Among them was the gray pile of the château of the counts of Flanders, a splendid specimen of the residences of the great lords in the magnificent Burgundian days. It was built for the purpose of overawing the headstrong citizens, and had on one side the moated river and on the other the square which saw so many tragedies of the Inquisition.

It is a picturesque city with its network ofcanals. Its Béguinage, a religious home for older women with little means, is a small world in itself. It consists of a group of houses of different sizes, each with its own little garden in front, shut in by high brick walls. Through the community flows a stream where the women do their washing from a boat, spreading the linen to dry in an open, park-like space reserved for that use. The women who live there belong to a religious order, but are bound by no vows and are free to leave if they choose. Their special mission is to nurse the sick, whom they care for either in their own homes, or in the Béguinage. Because of its many gardens Ghent was often called the City of Flowers. Maeterlinck said of it, “It is the soul of Flanders, at once venerable and young. In its streets the past and present elbow each other.” This may be due to the fact that while it is an ancient city, it had before the war experienced a return of its former prosperity, so that it was, in comparison with Bruges, for instance, quite lively and up-to-date. Its great canals gave it access to the sea and to other cities, and its various industries were thriving. The story of Ghent is the usual tumultuous chronicle of Flemish towns. The weavers who early made their city famous were an independent lot, noteasily governed against their will. When not fighting outsiders they were usually struggling for more rights and privileges for themselves. During the Middle Ages Ghent’s great leader, van Artevelde, was treated as an equal by Edward III of England. The belfry was the symbol of their freedom, and it served as a watch-tower—a necessity in a country where there are no hills—and to give alarm at the approach of an enemy. On the great bell, Roland, is the inscription: “My name is Roland. When I toll there is fire. When I ring there is victory in Flanders.” They tell you now how, shortly after the Germans entered Belgium, some one tried to ring the mighty bell and discovered that it was cracked.

We found the old town of Bruges, which lies between Ghent and Ostend, more attractive than we had expected. Indeed it was perhaps the most interesting town in Belgium, and the most picturesque. One doesn’t easily forget the squares with their handsome façades, the ancient Béguinage with its tottering old women, or the lovely Lac d’Amour, which was once a harbour, with its pretty border of flowers and flotilla of white swans. I remember the walk through the little street of the “Blind Donkey,” below the gilded bridge, to the town hall and therichly-fretted law court, into the square where the exquisite Chapel of the Holy Blood was tucked away in a corner. It dates from 1150, when it was built to enshrine some drops of the “Saint Sang” brought, according to the old legend, from the Holy Land by a count of Flanders.

LAC D'AMOUR, BRUGES.

LAC D'AMOUR, BRUGES.

People call Bruges the Venice of the North, on account of its many picturesque canals, but here are trees everywhere, and the houses are of a wholly different style. It is very charming, really the most fascinating town in Belgium, with its mediæval buildings and its people, who seemed to have a quaintness all their own. The old women in caps, sitting in their doorways making lace, looked as if they had just stepped out of an art gallery.

Bruges gets its name from the Dutch word for the many bridges which cross the canals in every direction. These canals connect it with Ghent and other inland cities and were once important highways of commerce. In those days Bruges had a harbour that was large enough to hold the whole French fleet, but this has long since been filled in by silt from the river.

The town was so sleepy and quiet, I found it hard to realize that it had once been one of the wealthiest, busiest cities in Europe, the commercialcenter of the whole continent. The famous Belfry of Bruges was originally built of wood, nearly a thousand years ago, but near the end of the thirteenth century it was replaced by the present tower. Like that of Ghent, it stood the townsfolk in good stead as a watch-tower from which they might see the approach of their warlike and envious neighbours. When Bruges was not at war with them, she was usually occupied in repelling attacks from foreign invaders.

It seems strange that in spite of her battles, not only her commerce but her intellectual life flourished and grew stronger. At one time merchants from seventeen countries lived there, which must have given the city a very cosmopolitan air. Laces, tapestries and woolen cloths were bartered for the treasures of the East and South and North. Art and letters gave it its chief renown, however, for Bruges was the home of Memling, and of the van Eycks. This was during the Golden Age of the city, in the reign of Duke Philip the Good, who was himself a patron of art while his wife was keenly interested in literature. It was for her that William Caxton, living at that time in Bruges, made the translation of his first book, which he later printed. Glorious old manuscripts were still to be seen when we were there. In his book,“Some Old Flemish Towns,” George Wharton Edwards describes his climb into the top of the belfry—an adventure which we did not undertake. After treading many flights of stone steps he reached at last “a leather-covered door and entered a room floored with plates of lead, and filled with iron rods, pulleys, and ropes.... Faint, clear, sweetly coming from afar, one hears the music of the bells subdued, soft, like harmony from an æolian. But this is from the lower chamber. Very different will be the impression of the sounds if one is among the bells when the hour or the quarter is struck. Here, among the hanging bells is a sort of chamber, where lives a being who seems the very double of Caliban, so hairy and wild-looking is he. He is the watchman, and is forced to pull upon a rope every seven minutes before the bells sound. I shall not forget the fright he gave me when fancying myself alone in the tower I was examining the carillon, and he thrust his huge red, hairy face between the two bells under which I groped, and stood there staring while I froze with horror, while the bells row upon row, above and about us, clashed and clanged and boomed, swinging as if they would the next minute fall upon us and crush us. Thus he stood in this turmoil of din and roar and finally when it endedhe demanded—in the mousiest squeak of a voice imaginable, a small fee for beer money.” These bell-ringers have appealed to other imaginations, too. Poe might well have had in mind the Belfry in Bruges when he wrote:

“And the people—ah, the people,They that dwell up in the steepleAll alone,And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,In that muffled undertone,Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone—They are neither man nor woman—They are neither brute nor human—They are Ghouls:And their king it is who tolls.”

“And the people—ah, the people,They that dwell up in the steepleAll alone,And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,In that muffled undertone,Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone—They are neither man nor woman—They are neither brute nor human—They are Ghouls:And their king it is who tolls.”

“And the people—ah, the people,

They that dwell up in the steeple

All alone,

And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,

In that muffled undertone,

Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone—

They are neither man nor woman—

They are neither brute nor human—

They are Ghouls:

And their king it is who tolls.”

In Ostend we found a watering place which during the last generation has more than doubled its population and become wealthy and important. This change was due to the efforts of the old King, who saw the possibilities of his sandy sea-coast if pleasure seekers could be induced to come in sufficient numbers. His dream was to build a road from one end of the shore to the other which should be one long, continuous summer resort. At tremendous cost of money and labour strong sea-walls were built to protect the shifting dunes, and sections of the road as well. Hotels and casinos and villassprang up all along the shore, among them the villa of the old King himself.

In the time of Charlemagne Ostend was a fishing village, but only yesterday it was the Continental ideal of what a bathing place should be. The Digue, that famous walk by the sea, was thronged with an endless variety of men and women, of all nationalities and styles of raiment. Thousands sat and watched them drift by. The heavy bathing machines—a city in themselves—went lumbering into the water, all so gay in pink and green and blue paint. Absurd looking old people were wading and children played everywhere in the sand. It was indeed a passing show.

The weather was warm when we were there, and we saw the place at its best. Each night we dined inside the glassed-in terrace of the hotel, with gay people all about us and the crowds passing up and down, outside. Then we went over to the Casino, a vast amphitheater where the orchestra played and throngs sat listening till the dancing began at half after ten.

In sad contrast to these lively scenes was that a few months later, just before the Kaiser’s troops entered the town. A mournful procession of refugees moving to the quay, men with stolid faces guiding little dog-carts piled highwith luggage, anxious women and weary children laden with bundles—all seeking the promised safety of England.

Every year there was held at Ostend a curious ceremony which drew excursionists from all corners of the country to witness. This was the benediction of the sea, which was performed by the more intelligent Belgians with all the decorum of a religious rite. The ceremony went back apparently at least to the early sixteenth century, for it is recorded that after a certain inundation of the coast the fishermen joined with ship-owners in contributing the sum of 271 francs to the Church, which was instructed to use it for the benefit of the fish in the North Sea. This was no doubt the beginning of the procession to the shore.

Running inland from Ostend one comes before long to Roulers, where there was a training convent for missionaries. We found the town an active, commercial place, and drove over rattling streets to the outskirts and our destination, the Convent of the Missionary Sisters of St. Augustine.

The Mother Superior had invited us to visit them because six of the little sisters were about to start for the Philippines, some to go to a convent in the Bontoc country among the headhunters,where L. had followed the trail on horseback with the Governor and the Secretary of War, a short time before. We wanted to show appreciation of their undertaking, for they have always spread good reports of the United States’ government of the islands.

The buildings were neither large nor extensive, for the sisterhood is limited and the order comparatively new. There was an American flag—rather a queer one, for the little sisters had made it themselves—hanging with the Belgian flag above the door, and inside there were decorations of flags and paper flowers and streamers, all quite sweet and pathetic.

Mother Ursula, a nice looking woman, met us and conducted us into a room where the forty little sisters were huddled together, peering at us out of their headdresses, with the liveliest curiosity. It was natural enough that they should be curious, too, for during their two years of instruction they were never allowed to go out, and saw very few laymen. At any rate, their eyes never left us all the time we were with them. They seemed very docile and obedient, and were pretty and young, but they were rather ignorant, although they were taught a little English besides the native dialect of the savage places where they were to go, and a littlemusic. They played and sang for us, so badly but so touchingly and anxiously—the Old Kentucky Home, in a way to make one cry, and the Star Spangled Banner—both in English.

Their days were filled with offices of the Church, with a little recreation in the small garden. When an extra holiday hour was allowed them for the time we were there, the first thing they did was to go in procession to the garden and fall upon their knees before the crucified Christ. That was evidently their idea of a holiday hour.

The Flemish roads themselves were always interesting, even here where the country was so level. We passed an endless succession of wonderfully tilled fields in which the peasants were working with their primitive implements, and little red-roofed stone farmhouses with innumerable tow-headed children playing about them. I shall never forget how lovely were the apple trees about the farmhouses and in the orchards. They all had white blossoms, and while we missed the more varied pinks and mauves which we see at home, the effect was charming. Every now and then we would catch a glimpse of a château in its park, usually just beyond a lagoon and with a moat about it. We traversed the streets of the little towns, so quietin spite of the factories that sometimes girdled them, and wondered how the people lived behind the quaint façades of their ancient houses. We stopped at the little village of Herzèle, on the road to Courtrai, to see its ruined tower, once the property of Count Egmont, in which he sustained a siege for six months. It was quite picturesque, built of slabs of rough gray stone. Its history reminded us of the great Flemish primitives, for its first owner was Jean de Roubaix, the friend of Jan van Eyck.

COUNT EGMONT'S TOWER, HERZÈLE.

COUNT EGMONT'S TOWER, HERZÈLE.

On another occasion we made a circuit of the now historic places in the neighbourhood of the Yser River. To be sure, they were historic enough then, but so remote from the lines of tourist travel that few realized what treasures they contained. Now, when nearly everything has been swept away, hordes of people are waiting eagerly for a chance to see even the ruins.

At that time Dixmude had a population of about a thousand, although it was built for thirty thousand. Its deserted Grande Place was large enough to hold every man, woman and child in the place—and if they kept quiet I doubt if you would have noticed them! In the church was one of the finest altar screens in Europe. Because of repeated bombardments Dixmudeis now completely off the map—church and all. I wonder what is left of the ancient windmill on its grassy hillock overlooking the town; it had been there since the Middle Ages.

Nearer the mouth of the Yser was Nieuport, the “new port” made when the harbour of Lombaertzyde across the river filled with sand during a terrific storm in the twelfth century. Part of the way the road along the embankment ran just over the sea, and the rest of the time behind the dunes. It was a quaint old town with some really fine Gothic buildings, hidden by its sheltering mounds of sand from the hotels and villas of the beach, which is called Nieuport-Bains to distinguish the resort from its moribund neighbour.

This is far from being Nieuport’s first experience of war. It was destroyed in 1383, after withstanding nine sieges. A hundred years later it was successfully defended against the French, the women and even the children fighting side by side with the men. It was destroyed again in the seventeen hundreds—three times, in fact. Whether it will rise again, the world will wait to see. A brave little town among its gray-green sand dunes, with its ancient lighthouse and its empty, echoing square.

A few miles west along the coast was Furnes, whose history beginsin the Dark Ages and finishes—in 1914. It was quite of a piece with the other dead little towns of the Yser country, so far as one could see, but distinguished from them all by its strange celebration, the Procession of Penance.

Sand Dunes, Nieuport

Sand Dunes, Nieuport

This was held every year on the last Sunday in July, and was one of the last remaining Christian mysteries. The procession represented the life of Jesus. It is supposed to have been instituted by that Count of Flanders who was also King of Jerusalem, for the purpose of carrying about the streets of Furnes a splinter from the Cross, which he had brought back from the Holy Land.

For a while other mysteries were added, but it finally began to degenerate until by the seventeenth century it had become a sort of burlesque. A brotherhood was founded to restore it to its primitive form, but a new motive entered into it when two soldiers profaned some concentrated wafers and had to do penance in public. In this manner the modern penitential procession originated.

The procession formed within the church of Sainte Walburge. Outside, the horses of the Roman soldiers pranced about while Mary sat on an ass waiting for the flight to Egypt. Thenslowly forth from the church came the penitents, robed and cowled in brown, their faces masked, dragging after them the carts bearing the stable of Bethlehem, the Holy Sepulcher, the Resurrection, and the Ascension. Following them came many rosy-cheeked girls veiled in white.

As the long lines of the procession unfolded themselves before the spectator there was a general impression of a variegated river of gold, purple and blue. First came chariots representing Old Testament scenes, followed by the scourges—War, Pestilence and Famine, a prophetic trio. Then appeared St. John, the Hermits and the Shepherds, and the Stable, which was preceded by an angel and bore Mary and Joseph seated inside.

When, after various scenes from the story of the Passion, Jesus passed by, dragging the cross, with the soldiers and executioners following behind, a tense silence fell upon the crowd of onlookers. Not a sound was heard, save here and there the low muttering of the men, women and children kneeling on the pavement, praying over their rosaries. At every window along the route were lighted candles. It was no uncommon sight to see some poor old woman, carried away by her religious fervour, throw coins in front of the cross. This was indeed oneof the characteristic incidents of the Furnes festival.

Following this came the penitents, marching in close ranks, torches in hand and weighed down by the heavy crosses that they dragged along. The men’s faces were hidden by their masks and hoods, the women’s by their veils. All were barefooted.

Every position in the procession was sought for as eagerly as if it had been a public office. Some of the principal parts were hereditary in certain families. They say that the festival as given the last time was unchanged from its original form, centuries ago, thanks to the care of “La Sodalité,” the brotherhood having it in charge.

Ypres we saved for the last. Poor Ypres! Remains of its ancient ramparts still were to be seen, and moats with lilies floating on their dark waters, and the vast Grande Place, with the glorious Cloth Hall occupying one side of the huge square, rivaled only by that of Brussels. Through the crooked streets of the town, with their sagging, gabled houses whose upper stories often projected over the tiny sidewalks, one caught now and then a glimpse of a quiet courtyard beyond a vaulted gateway.

In the quotation which follows, Pierre Lotirefers to the “little children” in Ypres. Until recently their presence there in what eventually became a deserted city was not explained, nor indeed specially noticed. But it has been discovered that when the last train left the interior of Belgium, supposedly for France, just in front of the advancing Germans, frantic mothers pushed their children into the already crowded cars, hoping that some one would care for them at their destination. This proved to be Ypres, where for months the motherless little ones wandered about the deserted streets, living in cellars and abandoned houses, the older ones caring for the younger, all living on what they could pick up in the streets. At last accounts they were being brought together by the French Government and cared for in a convent until the war is over, when every effort will be made to find their parents.

Pierre Loti has written of Ypres as he saw it not long ago, and it gives us a vivid glimpse of the city in war times. “The squares around these tall ruins are filled with soldiers who stand still, or who move slowly about in silent little groups a trifle solemnly, as though awaiting something of which every one knows, but about which no one speaks. There are also poorly dressed women with haggard faces, and littlechildren; but the lowly civil population is completely swallowed up in the mass of rough uniforms, almost all soiled and earthy, having evidently witnessed many a long battle. The graceful khaki yellow uniform of the English and the slender black regimentals of the Belgians mingle with the sky blue military cloaks of our French soldiers, who make up the majority. All this taken together results in an almost neutral shade, and two or three red cloaks of Arab chieftains form a sharp and unexpected contrast to this universal monotony of a gloomy winter evening. The thousands of soldiers glance instinctively at these ruins, as they take their melancholy evening strolls, but usually they remain at a distance, leaving both hall and church in their majestic isolation.... And now the night is almost here, the true night which will put an end to every trace of life. The crowd of soldiers retires gradually into the streets, already dark, but which surely will not be lighted. Far away a bugle is calling them to their evening meal, in the houses or the barracks where they sleep insecurely.... Now the silhouettes of the cathedral and the great belfry are all that are pictured against the sky—like the gesture of a shattered arm now turned into stone. As the night gradually closes in on you under theweight of its clouds, you recall with increasing vividness the mournful surroundings in the midst of which Ypres is now lost, the vast, tenantless plain, now almost black, the mutilated roads, over which none would know how to flee, the fields flooded with water or blanketed with snow, the lines of trenches, where, alas! our soldiers are cold and suffering.”

CLOTH HALL, YPRES, AFTER BOMBARDMENT.

CLOTH HALL, YPRES, AFTER BOMBARDMENT.

ITwas a fine night in the year 54B.C., the sky clear, the air calm, when a boat—a sort of raft of basket work covered with ox hides—was slowly following the ebb of the Scheldt. A voice was heard from the boat, a woman’s voice, soft and gentle.

“Yes, Atuix, for thee have I passed the threshold of my father’s dwelling. I have quitted the deep forests of Gaul, my native country; for thee have I left all, because of my love for thee, Atuix, and thy beautiful harp which sleeps silently by thy side.”

Another voice was heard: “Oh, Frega, since the day that thine eyes looked into mine, my harp has forgotten its sounds and my soul no longer knows any of the songs whispered by Ogmius, whom I worshiped in the forests—the god of the bards, he who is always surroundedby men bound by their ears to chains of gold and amber which issue from his mouth.”

The boat continued to descend with the tide. Suddenly the waves were troubled and foaming as if some water monster was rising to their surface. A breathing, a stifled murmuring, was heard, like unto the autumn wind rushing through the branches of an old, decayed forest; the bubbling of the waters came nearer, and the breathing grew stronger. Then by the pale rays of the moon’s light, rising above the silvery clouds, Atuix and Frega beheld with terror, approaching them and swelling the waves in his rapid course, a colossal Giant.

The waters of the river reached up to his broad chest, and formed around him a white and sparkling belt of foam. From his formidable face flowed a thick beard, and his head was covered with hair like that of a horse, rough and black. He looked like those isolated peaks which are sometimes seen on the borders of the ocean, with their frowning crests from which the long, trailing grass hangs dripping in the waves. The boat suddenly stopped, and cracked under the hand of the giant. A terrible roaring burst from his hollow chest, and these words were uttered in a voice of thunder:—

“Ah! ah! my passengers of the night!—you think that the eyes of Antigon are closed to allow you to pass in the dark! Where are my three oxen to satisfy my hunger this evening?”

Frega clung trembling to Atuix who silently drew forth his long blade.

The giant continued, “If you wish to speak to me, then swell out your feeble voices, my dwarfs.”

“Mercy upon us, if thou art the god of this river,” replied Atuix, “and if thou art not a god, then let a poor bard of Ogmius pass unmolested.”

“O terrible giant, let us pass in the name of the great Hesus of Teutates, and of all the gods.”

“Oh, thou dost jest, I think,” said the giant in a ferocious tone. “I laugh at Hesus, seest thou? and at all thy gods!—and if thou hast seen them, is their stature no higher than yours, fine race of weaklings, of whom I could trample a whole army under my feet? Ah! thy gods, I should long ere this have taken them from their heaven for my evening’s amusement on the lonely shore, or to make a repast of, if they were anything more than vain smoke!”

“Who, then, art thou,” said Atuix, “thou who laughest at the gods?”

“Who am I?—Where is Antigon? Ah! thou wouldst dissemble with Antigon!—Yes, thou forgettest the tribute of oxen thou owest me for passing on my river—thou didst think, favoured by the darkness, to deceive me, and now thou wouldst use thy childish tricks! Ah! Ah!” And the giant covered Atuix with his powerful hand before he could move a limb.

Frega, who had remained motionless with terror, threw herself on her knees in the boat. “Mercy, mercy upon Atuix,” she exclaimed. “Oh! mercy! what harm can our passing this river do to thee, we feeble and without any evil intention, he loving me and I loving him? Mercy! Ah, heavens! is there, then, no pity in thy soul?”

The giant interrupted with a terrible sneer: “Oh! my soul, sayst thou! My soul! Where hast thou learnt that I have a soul? Who has ever seen a soul? Oh, I tell thee truly that there are neither souls nor gods, neither mind, nor anything but the body, and hunger!”

As he ended the giant pressed the hand of Atuix between his two iron fingers, the hand fell into the boat with the glaive it grasped. A terrible cry was heard accompanied by a ferocious laugh. The giant picked up the bloody hand and threw it into the river. Then, just ashe was about to seize Frega, who had dropped senseless, Atuix freed from the frightful claws which pressed him, with the hand which was left him, picked up the fallen sword and plunged it to the hilt in the giant’s arm. A howl of pain was repeated by the surrounding echoes.

The moon was just rising brilliant and pure from her bed of clouds, and her rays played on the waves, which were scarcely ruffled by the light breeze. The boat no longer detained floated adrift. A violent shock aroused Frega! She rose painfully on her knees and saw at some distance from her a horrible sight. The furious giant was crushing the body of Atuix between his hands. Frega dragged herself to the edge of the boat, her eyes fixed, her face ashy pale, she with difficulty stretched out her neck, tried to advance farther, as if under some invisible attraction; an instant she gazed, leaned forward, her eyes tearless, not a sigh from her bosom; then she loosened her hold and rolled over into the river.

A year after this night Cæsar had put an end to Gaulish liberty. The strength, the courage and the heroic resistance of this great people whose ancestors had in one of their daring wanderings over Europe encamped on the ruins of Rome, was now crushed under the fortune andgenius of the conqueror. By the glare of vast conflagrations, Belgium, the perpetual focus of revolt against oppression, was traversed by three Roman armies, and bridges thrown over the Scheldt opened the passage to the country of the Menapians. One day a detached company of the legion of the vanguard followed the banks of the river, guided, it is said, by a mysterious being. Twice the sun had sunk to rest without their returning. German horsemen sent on their track towards the middle of the night were stopped at the sight of a strange spectacle. Raging flames agitated by the wind were devouring the foundations of a tower which had protected a castle of colossal proportions. The ground was lit by the glare of the fire and strewn with the dead bodies of the Roman soldiers. In the midst of them, on a mound of the dead, was stretched motionless, covered with wounds, pierced all over by darts, the enormous body of a giant. From one of his huge arms, from which the hand was severed, ran on the ground a rivulet of black blood. Over his head bent a warrior. After some moments of suspense the eyes of the giant opened. The warrior instantly raised himself, parting his long, flowing hair from off his pale and beautiful face. Then his eyes suddenly flashed with extraordinarybrightness—he approached near to the monster’s ear, shouting out these words:—

“Antigon! Antigon! I must call loudly, is it not true?—so that thine ear may catch the sound? Well, now listen to me, Antigon! Oh! thou art not quite dead, thou canst yet understand and remember! A year has elapsed since—truly, truly, thy wounds are ghastly and bleeding and sweet to look upon!—Yes, it was on a summer night, two lovers floated together on the river. Oh! thy den was not as bright as this night—Two lovers thou knowest!—two lovers who only spoke of love, their hearts filled with gentle thoughts. Look, look, how well one sees one’s shadow here in thy blood.—One of the two lovers was a bard. Oh! oh! thy dying eyes flash! Thou didst kill him, and the other—But where are thy terrible hands, Antigon? The other, that feeble woman—Thou hearest me? She lives to avenge him!”

A shudder ran through the giant’s body, a frightful rattle burst from his chest; his teeth chattered like the clashing of swords, his eyes rolled once more in their bloody orbits, and then closed forever. He was dead. Frega knelt on the ground and prayed. Upon that spot rose Antwerp. Now Antwerp is the Antwerpen of the ancient Flemish language, which still preservesits original strength and richness in its Saxon garb—Antwerpen, in which word the chroniclers find Hand and Werpen, to throw, in remembrance of the giant Antigon and the hands which he threw into the Scheldt.

When you approach the old Flemish city, built upon the banks of the Scheldt, in one of the finest situations of Europe, the first object which attracts the attention of the traveler is the great spire of the Cathedral. This “Heaven-directed” spire is one of the loftiest and finest in the world. It is a masterpiece of pyramidal construction, delighting the vision not more by its vast height than by its exquisite proportions. It is surmounted by a cross of a size corresponding with the edifice itself. The Antwerpians are justly proud of their antique cathedral, which occupies the first rank among the monuments of Europe; if time and space permitted I would give you a sketch of its beauties, but many others before me have described its elegant marble statuary, chapels, confessionals, altars, choirs, and above all thechef-d’œuvre of the immortal Rubens. Before the grand entrance, which so plainly shows the imprint of time, observe this blue marble stone, inlaid with several small pieces of brass, scattered promiscuously and seeming to form a mysterious design, which irresistibly excites one’s curiosity. This monument marks the historical and fatal spot where the event occurred which I am about to relate.

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