The Spell of Flanders. Edward Neville Vose

the Europe of to-day. Throughout the Middle Ages Europe was sub-divided into hundreds of separate sovereignties—duchies, counties, principalities large and small, whose rulers bore a score of titles. These, as a rule, acknowledged allegiance to some higher prince, while the most powerful yielded deference only to some King or Emperor. But this allegiance was usually a very shadowy affair, and the actual government rested absolutely in the hands of the local Count, or Duke, or whatever else his title may have been. The history of Flanders is, therefore, in a sense, the history of its Counts, for as their power waxed or waned the country itself grew powerful or weak. Gradually, however, the great cities of Flanders acquired from the earlier and better Counts rights and privileges that made them, in many respects, sovereign powers, and the most fascinating and instructive part of the history of Flanders is the record of the brave struggle made by its burghers to maintain their liberties in the face of a steadily advancing tide of tyranny and oppression.

      The first Count of Flanders, who won his title and his domains during the period of storm and stress that followed the breaking up of the great empire of Charlemagne, was a Flemish chief, called Baldwin of the Iron Arm. He chanced one day to see Judith, the beautiful daughter of Charles the Bald, the son of Charlemagne, fell in love with her, and carried her off for his bride. Judith had been previously married to Ethelwolf, King of Wessex in England, when he was a very old man; and had taught her stepson, who afterward became Alfred the Great, much of his learning. The old King Charles, her father, for a time opposed the marriage with Baldwin, but finally it was celebrated with much splendour at Auxerre in 863, and Baldwin was thereupon given the title of Count of Flanders. On his return, Baldwin built a great fortress on an island formed by the intersection of the River Roya with its little tributary, the Boterbeke. This was called the Bourg, and soon contained within its strong walls the nucleus of the future city of Bruges.

      Mrs. Professor interrupted at this point to ask if the name Bruges was derived from Bourg, to which our learned friend replied that it was not, but that most historians ascribed the name to the bridge (in Flemish, brigge) from the island to the mainland; while some take it from the purple heather (brugge) which grows plentifully hereabout, and in August can be seen alongside the railway tracks and in great clusters by the country roadsides.

      The first afternoon’s programme was to discover as much as we could of the old Bourg of Baldwin of the Iron Arm. Not much of it is left in the Bruges of Albert the First. The Roya still runs where it did in the days of the first Counts of Flanders, but only along the Dyver, a terrace of middle-class residences, can it be seen by the tourist. Since the eighteenth century it has been vaulted over for much of its course through the city, and the Boterbeke runs through subterranean channels for the entire distance from where it enters the city limits to its junction with the Roya at the corner of the rue Breidel. It flows close to the Cathedral, or possibly beneath it, and directly under the Belfry, which is built on piles. For part of its course it runs, like a subway, under the rue du Vieux Bourg. The only building in modern Bruges that dates from the first Baldwin’s time is the crypt of St. Basil, under the Chapel of the Holy Blood. Here, or assuredly hard by, the founder of the long line of Flemish Counts, and his beautiful and talented Countess, no doubt worshipped; and, in the main, the little chapel probably looks today very much as it did a thousand years ago. In one corner, apparently outside of the original outer walls of the structure, the concierge showed us a miniature model of the ancient castle of the first Counts of Flanders as archeologists have reconstructed it, with the little Chapel of St. Basil adjoining it. On the opposite side, and near the entrance, is a smaller chapel which some authorities state was the one built by old Iron-Arm, the main structure dating from the middle of the twelfth century. Be this as it may, here is unquestionably the very oldest relic of the ancient Bourg and one of the oldest places of worship in all Flanders.

      After our inspection of St. Basil we decided to devote the rest of the afternoon to tramping around the streets of the Vieux Bourg, or, in other words, the section of the city within the circle of picturesque old quays that mark the approximate boundaries of the island-fortress where the first Counts of Flanders laid the foundations of their power. To be sure, none of the houses now standing date from a much earlier period than the fifteenth century, but all were so quaint and charming that we cared little for the archeologists with their dates, and felt ourselves transported without an effort to the days when might made right and the whole world was governed by the simple law that “he may take who has the power, and he may keep who can.” We little dreamed, as we journeyed about amid these peaceful surroundings, that within a single month the world was to revert to the rule of might once more; that, to quote from Kipling’s noble poem, stricken Belgium, and, indeed, all civilisation could say:

      “Our world has passed away,

      In wantonness o’erthrown.

      There’s nothing left to-day

      But steel and fire and stone.

      “Once more we hear the word

      That sickened earth of old—

      ‘No law except the sword,

      Unsheathed and uncontrolled.’”

      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