CHAPTER III
BRUGES IN THE DAYS OF CHARLES THE GOOD
To those for whom the past possesses elements of romance, of mystery and of fascination that our more prosaic and orderly modern world lacks, Bruges offers endless opportunities for enjoyment. To be sure, the streets are a bit more crowded than they were twenty years ago, and one sees more frequent groups of people, carrying little red-backed Baedekers and evidently intent on seeing all the “sights,” than formerly. But these are evils of which all old travellers complain, as one compares notes with them at the hotel after the day is over. One caretaker told us, with evident pride, that thirty thousand tourists visited Bruges in 1913. If one divides this total by three hundred and sixty-five, and the result again by the score or more of places that every tourist wants to see, it will be perceived that the number in any one place at the same time is not likely to be excessive. In point of fact our little party was almost invariably alone, save when we encountered a party of “personally conducted” travellers rushing at break-neck speed from place to place.
If, after seeing all the “points of interest” enumerated by the faithful red-coated guide, philosopher and companion above mentioned, one should stray down one or another of the narrow, crooked streets in the older parts of the town he is certain to find bits of mediæval Bruges here and there so well preserved and perfect that if the few passers-by only wore the picturesque costumes of the olden days the illusion would be complete. Take, for example, the rue de l’Ane Aveugle, the Street of the Blind Donkey, with its attenuated sidewalks along which a tight-rope walker could hardly advance without stepping off, its roadway too narrow for two blind donkeys to pass abreast, and its charming archway from the Hotel de Ville to the Maison de l’ancien Greffe Flamand; or the rue du Poivre, with its tiny one-story houses, many of them with one room down-stairs and one overhead—the latter lighted by the quaintest of gable windows—surely we have stepped backward half a dozen centuries, for nothing like this could have continued to exist until the prosaic present!
In fact these queer little one-story houses abound in all parts of the city, and the Madame was constantly darting across the roadway to peer within whenever she saw a door ajar. She generally returned highly indignant that any one could think of existing in such narrow quarters. “I’d as soon live in a tomb!” she exclaimed, nodding in the direction of one little house which consisted of one room and only one, being devoid even of the attic room with its customary dormer window. Inside sat an old lady, gazing tranquilly out of doors and doing nothing whatever. Indeed, as the Madame pointed out, there was little enough to do as far as housework was concerned. In the morning everybody in Flanders washes the stone floors of their living-rooms, and frequently the sidewalk and out to the middle of the street as well. This done, the housework for the day is over, except for preparing the meals. We had hoped to see old ladies by the score sitting at the doorways making lace, but on only one street—the rue du Rouleau—did we catch a glimpse of any, and they went indoors as we approached them. It was only the estaminets that we could inspect within. Whenever we found what appeared to be an exceptionally old house that bore the legend “Hier Verkoopt men drank” the Professor and I often used to go in and order a glass of Vieux système, simply to get a look at the interior. If, as sometimes happened, mijnheer and his vroue were very accommodating and kind, we summoned the ladies—despite the fact that the sign without appeared to mean “for men only”—and together we explored the old house from garret to cellar.
More than once, as we journeyed about among these delightfully old and quaint surroundings, the longing to see some one whose costume would, in a measure, suggest the period when these structures were built came back to us. “Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Professor, as we sat one afternoon in a particularly cosy corner of one of the oldest interiors we had yet seen, “if two or three knights in armour—or in their lovely costumes of velvet, silk and old lace—would stalk in and sit down at that table over there it would make the picture complete.” We found, however, one spot in Bruges, dating from the twelfth century, in which even the costumes were unchanged. This was the Béguinage, close to the Minnewater and the ancient city ramparts—a city of the past where, shut off by high brick walls from the noise and bustle of the outer world, peaceful figures clad in sombre grey and white move noiselessly about as if the big figures on the calendar read 1114 instead of 1914.
Except for two institutions of the kind in Holland, Belgium is the only country in Europe in which these Béguinages have survived—all of them in Flanders. No institution of the present day recalls so vividly the conditions that existed at the time when Flanders was the name of a wild marsh country peopled by yet wilder men. In 877 the Emperor made the title of Count of Flanders hereditary—the oldest title of the kind in Europe. Baldwin II, son of Baldwin of the Iron Arm and the beautiful Judith, married Alfrida, the daughter of Alfred the Great. The second Baldwin was renowned chiefly for his work in fortifying the towns of Bruges, Ghent, Ypres and Courtrai as a means of protection against the robber chiefs who still—despite the energetic warfare of his father—infested this entire region. The necessity for protection against robbers, and occasional incursions of savage Danes from the North Sea, caused population to flock speedily into these walled towns, and thus laid the foundation for the wonderful civic development of the next four centuries. The son of Baldwin II, Arnulph—often called Arnulph the Great—continued the policy of strengthening the cities, and also established or restored nearly a score of monasteries and convents for the protection of men and women against the many dangers of that lawless age. The famous chapter of St. Donatian’s at Bruges was one of these, and while the Béguinage dates from a somewhat later epoch in the town’s history, it admirably exemplifies many of the principles that made these early religious orders the strongholds, not only of piety in a period of semi-barbarism, but of learning and civilisation.
BÉGUINAGE BRIDGE, BRUGES.
The Béguinage at Bruges is much smaller than the famous Grand Béguinage at Ghent, which so many tourists visit, but is far more ancient—its arched gateway dating from the thirteenth century and its gloomy and barn-like chapel from 1605. How old the houses are no one seemed to know, but probably many of them are older than the chapel. The little bridge by which one enters its quiet precincts was first built in 1297, of wood, according to the records, but its present picturesque stone arches date from 1570—a respectable antiquity, even for Bruges. We found several of the little houses untenanted for some reason, but even the empty ones were spotlessly clean. The Béguines live in small communities or “convents,” under the superintendence of a Lady Superior called “de Juffer”; or in “houses” where two or three live together. In the convents there are usually about twenty inmates. Each has her little cell, but these we were not permitted to see. We did, however, inspect the kitchen and dining-room of one of the convents—and the large sunny workroom, in which the Béguines were assembled. Each was chatting aloud as she worked, but whether in Flemish or Latin we could not tell. On every face there rested the same expression of absolute peace and quietness, nor did a single one betray the slightest interest or curiosity at our presence.
In the early annals of Bruges no story is more dramatic than that of the murder of Charles the Good. It is, in fact, the theme of the great Flemish novelist Hendrick Conscience’s most famous book, De Kerels van Vlaanderen, and has been told by several contemporary chroniclers. When Charles became Count of Flanders the feudal system was slowly displacing the anarchy that had resulted from the breakdown of all centralised government as the Norsemen swept over northern Europe. Charles was an ardent believer in the new order, but was opposed in his policy of building up a strong feudal state by the Karls, a class of free landholders of Saxon descent, who stubbornly refused to swear allegiance to any feudal over-lord. The greatest of these was the house of Erembald. Desiderious Hacket, the head of the family, was Châtelain of Bruges, ranking next to the Count himself; while his brother Bertulph was Provost of St. Donatian, the principal ecclesiastical position in the County, and chancellor of the Count. The head of the feudal lords was Tancmar, Lord of Straten. Between the powerful houses of Erembald and Straten there was a deadly feud, which culminated in a challenge to mortal combat delivered to Walter, a nephew of Tancmar, by Richard de Raeske, a baron allied by marriage to the house of Erembald.
To the amazement of all Flanders the challenge, delivered in the presence of Count Charles and all his court, was refused. Walter, whom the historians call “the Winged Lie,” proclaimed that he would fight only with a free man, and that the Lord of Raeske, by wedding a serf, had become a serf himself. This was in accordance with a law recently promulgated by Charles, but the house of Erembald, perceiving that its very existence was threatened by the charge, fiercely repelled the accusation and was supported not only by all of the Karls, but by most of the feudal nobility as well—the latter no doubt fearing lest one of their own houses might be attainted in a similar manner at any moment.
The country was plunged into what was virtually civil war, when Charles was suddenly summoned by his feudal over-lord, the King of France, to come to his aid at Clermont. On his return, assured of the King’s powerful support, Charles undoubtedly meditated the complete overthrow of the Erembalds, whom he had steadfastly claimed as his vassals since “the Winged Lie” had denounced them as serfs. He arrived at Bruges late in the evening, and early the following day, March 1, 1127, repaired to St. Donatian to hear mass. It was a foggy morning and the Count went almost unattended. Hardly had he knelt before the altar when a party of followers of the attainted house of Erembald swarmed into the church and he was struck down before he had time to rise, much less to defend himself.
If, in his lifetime, the Count was a dangerous foe to the Erembalds, in his death he proved to be far more deadly. As his body lay on the stone floor of the great church, clad in the crimson robe the chroniclers so often allude to, and surrounded with flaming torches, the heads of the house hastily consulted as to what was to be done with it. To inter the body at Bruges would be to risk an outbreak of popular passion at the murder, and it was decided to secretly convey it away. This plan was rudely frustrated by a mob of citizens who forcibly prevented the removal of the body, which was therefore laid to rest with imposing ceremonies in the very church where the Count had been assassinated.
Meanwhile the story of the murder spread far and wide, and, in a few days, a huge host was marching on Bruges from every part of Flanders. For a time the burghers stood by the Châtelain and the Provost, but when the city was entered by stratagem and the Erembalds driven back into the Bourg the mass of the citizens went over to the side of the avengers. After a short defence the Bourg in turn was captured—its defenders failing to guard one small gate by which their enemies entered unopposed—and the remnant of the Erembalds fled into the very church that had been defiled by their kinsmen’s crime, St. Donatian. Here, for a time, they were left in peace while the victors pillaged the rich palaces in the ancient Bourg.
The day before the capture of the Bourg Bertulph, the Provost managed to escape and fled to a little village near Ypres. Here, after remaining in hiding for some three weeks, he was captured. The next morning he was brought to Ypres, walking on foot all the way, although a horse was offered him. That he was going to his death he well knew, and asked for a priest to whom he confessed. The old man—who had been “a soft, luxurious prelate,” proud and haughty in his days of power—made his last journey like a martyr. As the prisoner and his captors neared the gates of the city a great throng came forth to meet them, beating the Provost with their staves and fists and pelting him with the heads of fish. Arrived in the market-place he stood amid the huge jeering throng, not one of whom looked with pity on him, and there, for his greater shame, he was fastened naked to a cross like a common thief. On his refusing in a steadfast voice to reveal the names of any of those implicated in the Count’s murder, “those who were assembled in the market-place to sell fish tore his flesh with their iron hooks, and beat him with rods, and thus they put an end to his days.”
The news of this tragedy was brought to the little band still being besieged at St. Donatian and caused great grief and terror. Of the very considerable army of Erembalds and their partisans who had taken refuge in the Bourg only thirty now remained, most having been killed, while some no doubt had escaped. King Louis, with a host of French knights, had joined the men of Flanders in the attack and it was seen that further resistance was hopeless. The only terms were instant surrender or instant death, and as they looked across the country from the church tower they could see no hope of succour and surrendered. After keeping them prisoners for a fortnight, Louis directed that all save one, who was of somewhat nobler lineage than the rest, should be flung from the tower of the now thrice historic St. Donatian. This sentence was duly carried out. The cruel soldiers told the condemned that they were about to receive a proof of the King’s mercy and they remained ignorant of their terrible fate until, one after another, they stood on the lofty tower overlooking the city for a brief moment and were then dashed down headlong to the jagged pavement below. The bodies were denied Christian burial and thrown into a marsh outside of the city, and it is related that for many years thereafter “no man after nightfall would willingly pass that way.”
The house of Erembald was well-nigh annihilated during this short, but sanguinary, war. The sole survivor of the band captured in the church was beheaded by King Louis as soon as he crossed the French frontier, while most of the great names in the family were heard of in Flanders no more—some having perished in battle, others in exile. Only one, Hacket the Châtelain, returned after the cry for vengeance had died down, was placed on trial for the murder, proved his innocence, and eventually recovered much of his former power and wealth. The charge of serfdom was never raised again, and his descendants for many generations stood high in the rolls of the Flemish nobility.
The church of St. Donatian no longer stands, having been destroyed during the French Revolution. In the small museum of antiquities in the Halles adjacent to the Belfry we were shown some stone railings, carved in imitation of rustic woodwork, that the concierge assured us had come from the ruins of the famous church. From a painting made in 1710 the student can obtain a fair idea of the appearance of the structure, which can hardly be said to have been imposing externally. It stood opposite the Hotel de Ville, and the statue of Van Eyck in the centre of the little shaded square is said to mark the spot where Charles the Good fell at the hands of his assassins. The stones with which the Cathedral was built were carried away, and some of them were used to build a château a short distance outside of the city. According to the peasants in the neighbourhood, ill-luck has always followed those who lived there. If so, the spirit of the murdered Count would seem to have been as dangerous in the nineteenth century as it was in the twelfth.
Every morning here at Bruges, and elsewhere throughout our pilgrimage, the Professor and I sallied forth between five and six o’clock to explore as many of the by-ways and quaint out-of-the-way corners as we could before breakfast. The sun rises in Belgium long before five, in fact it is light as early as three in the summer time, but we found very few people astir, and those who were up were usually engaged in the morning scrubbing of floors and sidewalks—a fact that made us keep pretty much to the middle of the road on these expeditions. Cleanliness is certainly honoured next to godliness in Belgium, for this morning ablution of the premises is universal—the big department stores at Brussels observing the custom as faithfully as the tiniest estaminet in the remotest hamlet. Every one, rich and poor, performs this rite, and the tourist could safely eat his breakfast off the doorstep of any house when it is over. Nor is the rest of the interior neglected, for every pot and pan that we could see within the little houses as we passed their doors shone with a lustre that bespoke perpetual polishing. On the other hand, the good vroue herself, or her maidservant, was not so clean, and it is in this respect that the people of Holland are superior, for they somehow manage to keep themselves as immaculate as their little houses.
It was at Bruges that the Professor had his first experience with the Belgian species of barber. Instead of the massive reclining chair, with which all Americans are familiar, one finds in all parts of Belgium, save the big tourist hotels and resorts, stiff little arm-chairs with immovable head rests that look as if they could never serve the purpose for which they are intended. In point of fact they do fairly well, once one becomes accustomed to them. Razors in Belgium, however, are almost invariably dull—especially with the lady barbers who abound in the smaller villages. Avoid these sirens if you value your skin, for they certainly will slice off a bit of it. On Sundays and holidays, it appears, their husbands officiate, but week days the better half does her best to accommodate the public—but her best is none too good, and the experience is usually a painful one for the unwary tourist.
The shave over, the barber says, “S’il vous plaît, monsieur,” or its equivalent in Flemish, motioning meanwhile toward a small wash basin that is placed in front of the chair. To the uninitiated this is somewhat bewildering, but the professor desires that monsieur will kindly wash his own face. The ablution performed, he proceeds to rub a piece of alum over the face, after which he sprays it with perfumed water, then dries and powders it much in the manner of the American barber. When one becomes accustomed to this performance—which costs two to three cents in the villages and five to ten cents in the large towns—he is apt to prefer it to the American method. Certainly it is vastly superior to the hot towel torture so deservedly caricatured some years ago by Weber and Fields. In the smaller villages of the industrial provinces we found that the first and second class distinction that one encounters everywhere in Belgium extends even to the barber’s chair. The rough clad workman is simply shaved—a few fierce scrapes with the razor and it is all over—and is left to wipe off the remnants of lather as best he can, usually with a red bandanna handkerchief. For this the charge is only two cents—the alum, the spraying and the powder being reserved for first-class patrons only.
On our way back to the hotel from these early morning promenades the Professor and I kept on the look-out for some patisserie where brioches or cuches au beurre could be had with a pot of coffee. This formed our usual breakfast for, it may as well be admitted right now, we did not feel that we could afford the extravagance of a three-franc breakfast at the hotel. The ladies were ready to join us by eight o’clock—before that hour it would be useless to look for a place open for business—and we conducted them to the patisserie we had discovered. The brioche, it may be remarked, is a light spongy preparation—half cake and half biscuit—while the cuche au beurre is apparently made from a kind of light pie-crust, rolled thin and built up in several layers with butter between. When served fresh and hot from the oven the latter is most delicious, but when cold it is as tough and soggy as a day-old griddle-cake. The usual charge for these delicacies was five centimes (one cent) each, and as three made a very substantial meal, and the coffee cost three or five cents per cup, our total expenditure for four people was less than two francs. If, as often happened—in addition to getting everything hot and delicious—we were served on little tables out of doors with a view of a cathedral or Hotel de Ville thrown in, we felt that we were getting a very good bargain indeed.
Of the Bruges of Charles the Good the most important existing monument is the great Cathedral of St. Sauveur, which was rebuilt by him after having been partially destroyed by fire in 1116, the work being completed in 1127. Probably very little of the structure as we see it to-day dates from this period, as the edifice has been enlarged and restored many times, much of it dating from the fourteenth and part from the sixteenth century—the era when architecture in Flanders flourished as never before or since. The tower was begun in 1116, continued in 1358, and its upper portions added during the last century, so that nearly eight hundred years elapsed before it was finally completed in its present form. Many writers speak of this tower as clumsy and unsightly, but to me it is one of the most majestic and stately structures in Flanders. At any rate, there is no other tower like it, and the way in which it lifts its castle-like mass of tawny brick high above the tiny houses that surround it is profoundly impressive. The lower part of the tower is Romanesque, being, no doubt, the portion erected under the supervision of Charles the Good. The rest is Gothic, if so unecclesiastical a style can be so denominated.
The interior of St. Sauveur dates in the main from a much later period than Charles the Good, and as we visited this interesting edifice several times an account of its later constructions and paintings will be found in a chapter devoted more particularly to the art treasures of Bruges. It is not the purpose of this book to weary the reader with detailed descriptions of this and every other “monument” in Flanders. For those who are interested in architectural details there are numerous works written by experts and discussing exhaustively—if not exhaustingly—every feature of technical importance. Our little party was not learned and these random jottings will therefore record only such facts as seemed interesting to the average American visitor. Nor would it be possible to attempt a detailed account of the pictures and sculptures, either at St. Sauveur or elsewhere. Many of the great Flemish churches are literally museums of early Flemish art and a mere catalogue of their contents would fill many pages. For the most part the works are of mediocre merit, but nearly every church possesses one or more masterpieces—which the uninformed visitor can generally distinguish by the fact that a charge is made to uncover them. At times this practice becomes a bit annoying, particularly when—in addition to paying the fee—one has to hunt around for half an hour to find the sacristan, who may live two or three blocks away; but, after all, it is the tourist who is under obligation for the privilege of visiting the churches when they are closed to the general public, and all the fees in Flanders add only a trifle to the expense account of one’s tour.
In St. Sauveur on the occasion of our first visit we were especially interested in a curious painting of the Crucifixion located in the Baptistry and said to be the earliest picture of the famous Bruges school in existence. The savants assign a date prior to 1400 to this work, the author of which is unknown.
The name of Charles the Good is also associated with the Church of Notre Dame, part of the present structure dating from his reign. The bulk of the edifice was erected during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. The spire was begun in 1440, torn down and rebuilt, being finally completed nearly a century later. There is a legend that the architect, in despair over the fact that it leans considerably to the east, threw himself from its summit. At present it is one hundred and twenty-two metres in height, which is said to be the greatest elevation ever attained by a structure of this kind built of brick. It can hardly be described as beautiful, the dark red of the top portion being out of harmony with the rich tawny grey of the lower part, but it forms a splendid feature in the sky-line of the city. Perhaps the most charming view of it is that obtained from the opposite side of the Lac d’Amour. Another excellent point of view is from the Dyver with the outline of the tower, reflected in the still waters of the Roya.
The interior of this church is, like the tower, built of brick, only the great supporting pillars being of stone. The general effect of the interior is greatly marred by a wooden rood-loft that separates the nave from the choir. In this church there is an interesting “Adoration of the Magi” by Daniel Seghers, a painter of the later Antwerp school, who became a Jesuit but continued to practise his art and was especially renowned for the flowers and butterflies with which he adorned his pictures. This work, which was finished in 1630, is thought by many to be the artist’s masterpiece. Another notable treasure is the statue of the Virgin and Child by Michael Angelo, executed in 1503.
TOMB OF MARIE OF BURGUNDY, CHURCH OF NOTRE DAME, BRUGES.
The most famous of the possessions of Notre Dame, however, are the superb tombs of Charles the Bold and his daughter Marie of Burgundy, to be seen only by paying a small fee to enter the chapel in which they are placed. That of Marie is the older, and by far the finer of the two, and consists of a sarcophagus of black marble upon which rests a life-sized recumbent figure of the famous princess—“the greatest heiress in Europe”—who died at the age of twenty-five as a result of an injury received when hunting in 1482, less than five years after her marriage to Maximilian who later became Emperor. At the command of her son, Philip the Handsome, this masterpiece of stone and bronze was begun by Pierre de Beckère in 1495 and completed in 1502. Around the altar-tomb are exquisitely carved statues of saints and angels, with twining plants and scrolls and the heraldic shields of all the provinces and not a few of the cities within Marie’s wide domains. The figure of the princess lies above all this with her hands folded as if in prayer, a crown upon her head and two hounds lying at her feet. The bronze has been cunningly carved to represent the finest lace and richly gilded until it seems to be pure gold. The body of Charles the Bold was brought from Nancy in 1550 at the command of Charles the Fifth, his grandson, and eight years later the funeral monument was begun by order of Philip II. It was completed in 1562, and is designed in imitation of that of Marie. The figure of “the terrible Duke” is shown clad in armour, with his helmet at one side and a lion crouching at his feet.
“Here, in this little chapel,” said the Professor, “one can see the beginning and the end of the most interesting period in the long history of Bruges, the alpha and omega of her greatness. At the time of Charles the Good the little Bourg on the Roya was slowly emerging from obscurity and beginning to assume the aspect of a great capital. For three hundred and fifty years its power and fame grew until ‘the Venice of the North’ was everywhere recognised as one of the most beautiful and brilliant cities in the world. Then suddenly, almost within the span of a single generation, the fickle sea abandoned it and it became the quiet inland city that it is to-day, living largely upon the memories of its splendid past. When the beautiful Marie was brought home to the Princenhof, dying from her fall at Wynandael, the decline had already begun, and when the remains of her father were placed beside her here in Notre Dame the end had already come and the city’s merchants and prosperity had departed.”
CHAPTER IV
HOW BRUGES BECAME “THE VENICE OF THE NORTH”
After the murder of Charles the Good had been so thoroughly avenged, the King of France sought to foist one of his own underlings upon the people of Flanders, but they would have none of him, and he fell fighting before the gates of one of the Flemish cities. Dierick of Alsace was the popular hero and became Count on the death of this rival. The King of France sought once more to interpose, but the burghers of Bruges retorted proudly: “Be it known to the King and to all princes and peoples, and to their posterity throughout all time, that the King of France hath no part in the election of a Count of Flanders.”
Of all the Counts of Flemish blood Dierick proved to be the greatest and the wisest who ever ruled over the land. During his long reign of forty years (from 1128 to 1168) and that of his son, Philip of Alsace, who ruled until 1191, the country prospered and grew rich. Both princes encouraged commerce, industry and the arts, and were liberal in their policy toward the cities. It was during this Golden Age of Flemish history—the longest period of happiness the country ever knew—that municipal charters were granted to the cities of Bruges, Ghent, Ypres, Furnes, Gravelines, Nieuport, Dunkerque and Damme.
While the memory of Dierick of Alsace deserves to be fondly cherished by the people of Flanders as that of a wise and liberal ruler, his most famous exploit was bringing back the relic of the Precious Blood from Jerusalem. Like most princes of his time, Dierick joined in the Crusades, but, unlike many of them, he left his government so strong and secure that no harm came to the country during his absence. It was the second Crusade, and Dierick departed in 1147, and returned in 1150, bringing with him this relic, a portion of the most precious possession of the Holy Church of Palestine, consisting of a small crystal vial filled with what was alleged to be the blood of Christ, preserved by Joseph of Aramathea who prepared the body for burial. Deeming himself unworthy to bear so holy a relic, the Count entrusted it to his chaplain, who never parted with it until the returning crusaders delivered it to the chaplains of the court who placed it in the chapel built by Baldwin of the Iron Arm, where it still remains in its original receptacle.
On the 2nd of May every year from 1303 until now—save for a brief interruption during the stormy times of the French Revolution—the city of Bruges has celebrated its possession of this holy relic by the great Procession of the Holy Blood. At first simply a religious ceremony, the procession gradually took on spectacular features such as the Flemings love, including representations of the Apostles, the Nativity, King Herod, and so on. At present La Noble Confrerie du Precieux Sang, or Honourable Society of the Holy Blood, is a very wealthy and aristocratic organisation, even its affiliated members—of whom there are several thousands, of every nationality—esteeming their connection with it a great honour.
During the French Revolution mobs stripped the chapel of everything that could be torn down or broken, leaving it such a wreck that the municipal authorities were considering tearing it down, but were happily prevented from doing so by Napoleon. The lower chapel was, however, used as a jail for drunken and disorderly persons—and even as a pound for stray dogs—until 1818. The upper chapel meanwhile was roofless and windowless, a sad wreck of so ancient and famous a structure. Both have since been restored, the lower—or Chapel of St. Basil—being now just as it was in 1150, and, in the opinion of many critics, “the most beautiful and perfect specimen of Romanesque architecture in Europe.” We had already inspected the lower chapel while exploring the Vieux Bourg of Baldwin of the Iron Arm our first day at Bruges, but had not spent much time in the upper one. Here the most interesting object was naturally the chasse, or casket, containing the holy relic after which the chapel is named. This is on one side of the little museum of the chapel and is of silver-gilt, standing four feet, three inches high. It was made in 1617 by a silversmith of Bruges and, while not regarded as a masterpiece of its kind, is very graceful and elegant. The chapel itself is richly decorated and has some excellent stained glass windows, all of this work dating from the middle of the last century.
Adjoining the Chapelle du Saint-Sang is the Hotel de Ville. This structure is a very fine example of Flemish municipal architecture, dating from the last quarter of the fourteenth century. Here the Counts of Flanders formerly took the oath to respect the rights and privileges of the city, this formality taking place in the last window to the right. Originally there were statues of former princes on the façade and six of these were coloured by Jean Van Eyck in 1435. All were destroyed during the Revolution. Part of the interior is still used by various government officials, while up-stairs the tourists usually visit the ancient Salle Echinivale, or Council Chamber. This was restored in 1895 and decorated with a series of twelve mural paintings representing notable scenes in the history of the city. Of these eleven are by Albrecht de Vriendt, and the last by his brother, Julian, the first artist dying just before his work was completed. As these pictures form an interesting epitome of the history of the city, the subjects are given herewith:
- Return of the Brugeois from the Battle of the Golden Spurs at Courtrai in 1302.
- Foundation of the Order of the Golden Fleece by Philip of Burgundy at Bruges in 1430.
- Dierick of Alsace bringing the Holy Blood to the chapel of St. Basil in 1150.
- The interior of the ancient Hospital of St. Jean.
- Magistrates of Bruges renewing the privileges of the Hanseatic League.
- Count Philip of Alsace granting a charter to Bruges (1190).
- Magistrates visiting the Studio of Jean Van Eyck (1433).
- The printing by movable type in Bruges by Jean Britto in 1446.
- Count Louis of Maele laying the foundation of the Town-hall (1376).
- Jacob Van Maerlant, father of Flemish poetry, born at Damme.
- The Free-fair.
- Opening of the new Zwyn canal in 1404.
Palais du Franc, Bruges
One of the most interesting of the almost innumerable mediæval buildings in Bruges is the Palais du Franc which, with its many quaint turrets and gables, overlooks the fish market on the Quai Vert. The associations and history of this sumptuous bit of sixteenth century architecture date from the twelfth century—1190 to be exact—when Philip of Alsace granted a charter to the region stretching to the northward from the city to the sea, and from Aardenburg (now just across the Dutch frontier) to Dixmude. This wide tract of territory was called the Franc or Liberty of Bruges, and comprised ninety-one parishes and the towns of Ostende, Blankenburghe, Eccloo, Lissweghe, Aardenburg, Sluys and Dixmude. Of these only the first two are known to the tourists of the present day, while one must needs search the map very closely to find one or two of the others at all, but in the time of Philip all were busy centres of trade and industry. This was the hereditary land of the Karls, whose revolt against the attempt of Charles the Good to force them under the feudal yoke cost that monarch his life.
The charter was called the Keurbrief and laid the foundation for the administration of a code of justice that, rude as it was, meant liberty for those who otherwise would have been utterly at the mercy of any feudal lord or wandering knight. It was the Magna Carta of a large part of the Count’s dominions and even its stern eye-for-eye and life-for-life doctrine was tempered by equivalents in cash that might be paid. The life of a Karl was worth twice as much as that of a monk or priest, while for each injury there was an appropriate fine. He who broke a dyke must lose the hand that did the damage, besides forfeiting all his goods; for false weights the penalty was a fine of three livres for each offence. Fencing one’s property against game entailed branding with a red hot iron, or trial by the Count—who might confiscate the goods of the guilty party, but his life and liberty were to be safe. This cruel game law was not repealed for nearly three centuries, and must have entailed much hardship. On the whole, however, the charter was liberal for its day, and the country under it flourished exceedingly—a sure evidence of wise laws.
The Keurbrief was administered by the Magistrates of the Franc in the Palais du Franc, which was therefore a sort of special court. The present edifice is not the one erected by Philip, or used by him for the purpose, but dates from the early part of the fifteenth century. Part of it is still used as the Palais de Justice, but that part of the present structure is for the most part modern. The most interesting portion of the edifice, and the only one shown to tourists, is the Court Room containing the magnificent Cheminée du Franc, or chimney-piece, erected in honour of the Ladies’ Peace negotiated by Margaret of Austria while Regent of the Netherlands in 1529. The work was executed from designs by Lancelot Blondeel, a painter of Bruges, and was completed in 1530. The fireplace itself is of black marble, surmounted by a frieze in white marble containing four bas-reliefs representing the history of the chaste Suzanne. One cannot but wonder what was the connection of thought that suggested this story in conjunction with the commemoration of the Treaty of Cambrai, but at all events here it is. The reliefs are of varying excellence, the one showing Suzanne about to be seized by her aged admirers being very sharp and clear, while the fourth which shows the culprits being stoned to death is rather indistinct.
The upper part of the monumental chimney is of oak and occupies almost the entire side of the room. In the centre stands Charles V, represented as a Count of Flanders, nearly life size and finely carved. At his right are statues of Maximilian and Marie of Burgundy, and at the left Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile—these being the Emperor’s ancestors on his father’s and mother’s sides respectively. On the throne behind the Emperor are the busts of Philip the Handsome and Joanna of Spain, his father and mother, and below these are the portraits in small medallions of Charles de Lannoy, who won the victory of Pavia where Francis I, the King of France, was captured, and Margaret of Austria, who negotiated the treaty. As the last mentioned portrait is almost invisible in the shadow of the Emperor it hardly seems as though the chimney-piece does justice to the loyal and talented woman whose successful diplomacy the entire work is intended to commemorate. As an example of sixteenth-century wood-carving, however, and as a most important historical monument, this chimney-piece is by no means the least interesting of the many things to be seen at Bruges.
THE BELFRY, BRUGES.
Unlike most tourists, the Professor seemed to be in no hurry to inspect the famous Belfry, although we had passed it a score of times during our stay. Facing the Grande Place, and towering three hundred and fifty-three feet into the air, it could not be overlooked, while its loud chimes—which rang every quarter of an hour, and can be heard for many blocks around—insured that it could not be forgotten. Moreover, we more than once took our evening meal at a little restaurant just across the Place from it and saw its graceful octagonal parapet on one occasion outlined against the fast-flying grey clouds of a summer storm and the next day against the blue sky of one of the few perfect June days it was our fortune to enjoy. “Too soon,” he said, in answer to our inquiring glances—“the Belfry belongs to the period of Bruges’ splendour, while the buildings we have seen thus far date from the formative period when she was still little more than a fortress on a marsh.”
The original structure dates from the very early Counts of Flanders—possibly from the time of the first Baldwin—but was practically destroyed by a fire in the year 1280. It was then that the present edifice was begun, at a period when the commercial and industrial importance of the city was already very great. The city’s seal and archives were stored in a strong room within the belfry walls, where four wrought iron doors secured by ten locks and ten keys guarded them against abstraction by the emissaries of some Count who might desire to curtail the privileges of the city. Eight of these keys were kept by the deans of the eight leading guilds—the butchers, bakers, shoemakers, tailors, weavers, brokers, carpenters and blacksmiths—who thus virtually controlled the government. This room the Professor desired to see above all else in the old structure. We found the four wrought iron doors, but the archive chamber no longer contains archives or the city’s seal. It was a most interesting old room, nevertheless, and one that ought to particularly interest the builders of the elaborate burglar-proof and earthquake-proof vaults that extend below so many great banking houses in America. Alas! neither the four doors nor the ten locks rendered this ancient strong-room for the protection of the city’s liberties proof against the cunning and power of tyrants, and the precious charters it once held were gradually taken away, despite the stout handiwork of one Erembald, blacksmith, who received eighty-one pounds for forging the doors in the year 1290.
To reach the bells one mounts a steep, dark staircase which is said to contain four hundred and two steps, although we did not count them. The chimes are claimed to be the finest in Europe, and comprise forty-nine bells weighing in the aggregate fifty-six thousand, one hundred and sixty-six pounds. They were cast by George Dumery in 1743 and are noted for their soft tone. The tambour which operates the chimes that ring every quarter of an hour weighs nineteen thousand, nine hundred and sixty-six pounds and is pierced by thirty thousand, five hundred square holes in which are fixed the pegs that pull the strings commanding the hammers hanging outside the bells. By altering the position of these pegs the tunes can be varied, but the programme played while we were in the city was as follows:
At the hour: “Rondo, 15th sonata,” by Mozart; at the quarter past: “Le Carillon de Dunkerque,” a popular air; at the half: “The Day of Happiness,” by Mozart; at the three-quarters past: “The Three Drummers,” a Flemish popular air. The official bell-ringer is M. Toon Nauwelaerts, a native of Lierre, where his ancestors have been bell-ringers for more than a hundred years. Although a young man, M. Nauwelaerts won an international competition of bell-ringers organised by the city of Bruges in 1911.
The view from the summit of the Belfry is one of the most superb in Flanders, especially if the visitor is so fortunate as to have fallen on one of those days when the clouds roll in great fleecy masses of dazzling white that form a wondrous background for the grim grey tower of St. Sauveur and the tapering red spire of the cathedral. As one looks down upon the sea of tiny red-roofed houses far below he is transported in fancy to the time, centuries ago, when watchmen peered off across these very parapets day and night to sound the alarm of an approaching foe, or announce the approach of their mighty Count or some noble visitor. In so doing he can realise what the old Belfry has meant to the city on the Roya. “For six hundred years,” wrote M. Gilliodts, one of the city’s learned archivists, “this belfry has watched over the city of Bruges. It has beheld her triumphs and her failures, her glory and her shame, her prosperity and her gradual decay, and, in spite of so many vicissitudes, it is still standing to bear witness to the genius of our forefathers, to awaken alike memories of old times and admiration for one of the most splendid monuments of civic architecture which the Middle Ages have produced.”
The best time of all in which to study and admire the external aspect of this noble structure is when the sun is sinking to rest and its rays fall slantingly across the sombre pile of tawny brick, touching up its projections here and there with high lights that contrast sharply with the deep shadows behind them, and listen—as did so often our poet Longfellow—to the wonderfully sweet chimes as they ring the quarter hours: