The Spell of Flanders

The foregoing description of the Belgian State Railway refers, of course, to the service as it existed down to the end of July. Since then the destruction of tracks, bridges and tunnels by one army or another has put most of the system out of operation. One of the saddest phases of the war is that every one of the thousands of employés of the Belgian State Railway—from the highest supervising official to the humblest track walker—was working faithfully and efficiently, and planning the future of his frugal life, upon the assurance that promotion and an old-age pension would reward his zeal. This obligation toward its employés the Belgian Government has ever faithfully observed, and in the course of our travels we met many middle-aged men who told us that they were looking forward to the day when their terms of duty would end and they would be pensioned on half pay to enjoy a few years of well-earned repose. Probably not one of these men ever seriously dreamed that an event could occur that would, in the course of a few swift weeks, blot out the record of his life work, and deprive him of all opportunity for promotion, for pension, and even for employment. No doubt the death toll of the battles on the plains of Flanders has been heavy among these courteous, capable and industrious men—many of whom were liable for military service in time of war—but let us hope that peace, when it comes, will bring to each survivor his old post again, with the old good service record unforgotten, and that he will receive the pension he rightfully expects and that his country would gladly give—at last.

To those who enjoy rambling through the byways of history there is no town richer in associations, yet less spoiled by the visits of the all but ubiquitous tourist, than Dixmude. At present this little city is situated fifteen miles from the sea, yet all the ancient chroniclers aver that prior to the thirteenth century it was a seaport with a commerce overseas and a not inconsiderable fishing fleet. As one looks across the miles and miles of pleasant fields, interspersed with waving windmills and tiny villages, this part of the ancient city’s history seems utterly incredible, but it is too well authenticated to be disputed. Ten times, so the histories tell us, Dixmude was besieged and bravely defended by its citizens. More than once it was destroyed by fire and rebuilt, but at last the blight that destroyed the prosperity of its larger and more powerful neighbours, Ypres, Bruges and Ghent, struck at the heart of its industries as well and it sank by imperceptible degrees into its long sleep.

Like the abode of the Sleeping Princess, of whom Tennyson wrote, one might almost fancy that all life had stopped centuries ago at the wave of some magic wand. The summer’s sun and winter’s rain and snow of half a thousand years have left but the faintest traces on its old houses and its great parish church of St. Nicholas. The pride and joy of this church is its altar screen, or jubé, said to have been designed by Urban Taillebert, the architect of the Church of St. Martin at Ypres and many other celebrated works of around the year 1600. There is also an “Adoration of the Magi” by Jordaens, and the usual collection of minor works of art. To us, however, this old church was far more interesting externally than within, its huge clock tower resembling nothing else that we had seen in Flanders or elsewhere. The Grande Place, from which one can obtain a fine view of the old church with a row of Lilliputian houses nestling below it, is big enough to accommodate all the present inhabitants of the town in one corner. In its prime Dixmude is said to have had thirty thousand inhabitants, and all the room on the Place was, no doubt, needed on market days, but it does not have a fifteenth of that number now, and the wide, grass-grown expanse of cobble-stones is entirely deserted.

The jubé, or altar screen, already mentioned, is the one great “sight” of the little town, and every one asks without fail whether you have yet seen it. It is assuredly well worth seeing, being wonderfully graceful and dainty, and, perhaps, the finest thing of its kind in Northern Europe. The other famous chef d’œuvre of Dixmude is culinary instead of artistic. This is a kind of brioche called zieltjenskoeken, or gateaux d’ames—a sort of “soul cooky,” as it were. Twice a year, on certain religious occasions, the inhabitants of Dixmude consume vast quantities of these confections, which are claimed to possess the property—if eaten on the prescribed days—of delivering one’s soul from purgatory and sending it straight to Paradise. We were unfortunately unable to verify this, as our visit did not come on the right day, but we found the butter of Dixmude—which has enjoyed a great reputation for centuries—to be all that was claimed for it, although the Professor insisted on putting a shake of salt on his, to the great horror of the maid who served our dinner.

Had some Madame Thebes told us what the near future had in store for this sleepy and quaint old city we would have spent days instead of hours in it, but last June its importance did not seem to justify giving it a chapter so we planned to visit Furnes the same day. To-day the name of Dixmude has been heard to the farthest ends of the world, its great square echoes to the tramp of armed men, its old church—after standing for so many centuries—is said to have fallen before the withering storm of shrapnel and shells that for days rained down upon its defenders. It has been taken and retaken by each side in the gigantic combat more than once. It is asleep no longer, forgotten no longer; and, in years to come, reverent visitors from many nations will visit what may remain of the ancient town. For these the chief interest will not lie in the walls of the ruined church or the relics of the departed jubé, if any there be, but out in the open, pleasant fields where, in trenches that the kindly hand of nature will gradually obliterate, the brave men of four nations met in one of the fiercest and bloodiest death grapples of the great war.

But last July both Madame Thebes and the cannon were silent, so again taking our faithful omnibus after the dinner—which we obtained at one of the little restaurants overlooking the Grande Place—we next journeyed northward to Furnes, which is only a few miles distant across the flat Flemish plain. Furnes, according to the antiquarians, dates from as early as the year 800, and its day of greatness had come and gone centuries ago. Its crooked streets, quaint gabled houses, and picturesque corners seemed more mediæval than any place we had visited—surpassing even Dixmude in this respect. It was here, by the way, that Leopold I was welcomed to the country when he arrived after being chosen to be the first King of the Belgians in 1831. The Hotel of the Nobele Rose, near the Grande Place, is said to have been the Palace of the Countess Gertrude of Flanders in 1093, and if so, must be one of the oldest houses in Flanders. The widow of Count Philip of Alsace is also said to have resided here in 1218. More celebrated, in years to come, than any of these incidents, will be the fact that Furnes was for many months of the Great War the headquarters of the brave Belgian army, and the place of residence of Belgium’s heroic King.

The great annual event at Furnes is the famous Procession, which takes place the third Sunday in July. It dates from 1100 or thereabouts, when, according to the legend, Count Robert of Flanders was on his way back from the Holy Land, bringing with him a piece of the true cross. His voyage across the Mediterranean, through the Straits of Gibraltar and past the stormy Bay of Biscay, was without incident, but as he was nearing home a fearful storm in the English Channel threatened to send his frail bark to the bottom. The waves were running mountain high and all the party expected each moment to be their last when the Count suddenly bethought himself of his holy relic and vowed that, if his life were spared, he would present it to the first church of which he might see the spire.

Immediately the storm ceased, the wind died down, the sea became as smooth as a mill-pond, and as the happy mariners looked toward the shore of their dear Flanders a ray of sunlight fell upon the tower of Ste. Walburge in Furnes. To this church, therefore, in fulfilment of his vow, Count Robert presented the relic, now doubly precious by reason of this miracle. To commemorate this event the canons of the church organised a procession which took place every year and was marked by various historical representations of the return of Count Robert. About 1650 an act of sacrilege committed by a soldier, who was publicly executed for his crime, led to the procession taking on certain penitential features by way of expiation on the part of the city for this sin. From that time on the procession has included representations, for the most part by peasants dressed up for the parts, of Abraham and the Prophets, the Flight into Egypt, the Visit of the Three Wise Men to the Cradle at Bethlehem, so often painted by the artists of the Flemish school, the Stable and the Birth of Christ, the Court of Herod, Jesus in the Midst of the Doctors, the Penitent Magdalen, the Entry of Christ into Jerusalem, the Feast at Cana, the Garden of Olives, the Betrayal of Judas, and a series of scenes representing the crucifixion, burial and resurrection. Following these tableaux come the penitents, walking masked and barefooted, clad for the most part in brown Capuchin robes, and singing or chanting certain lines in Flemish. Many of the leading actors in the tableaux have “speaking parts,” all of them in Flemish and delivered with varying degrees of histrionic skill to the crowd that lines the streets. The whole performance, apart from its great antiquity, is of interest as being a local and original representation of the Biblical story—a sort of Flemish passion play, less refined and artistic than that of the Swiss peasants of Oberammergau, but none the less conscientious, earnest and sincere.

At one time Furnes ranked next to Ghent and Bruges among the cities of Flanders in official importance, if not in population and industry, its châtellenie comprising fifty-two villages. In 1297 it was besieged by Robert, the Count of Artois, who fell five years later at the great battle of Courtrai. At Furnes the French arms were successful and the city was captured and sacked, “more than two thousand houses being burned in two days,” according to the contemporary chronicles. Philip the Bold, the first of the Burgundian Dukes to rule over Flanders, rebuilt its fortifications, and the city was deemed worthy under Philip the Good to be designated as the place of residence of the French Dauphin, who subsequently became Louis XI, when that remarkable young man was in exile through his father’s displeasure. It may well have been here that the wiliest and most unscrupulous of all the Kings of France planned that tortuous and secretive policy that—steadily pursued year after year—brought the powerful House of Burgundy low at last and made France one nation instead of two or three.

The quaint old Grande Place of Furnes, while smaller than that of Dixmude, is equally picturesque. On one side is the old Meat Market, dating from the first quarter of the seventeenth century; and hard by is the Maison des Espagnols, or House of the Spaniards, formerly used as a town-hall and erected in the thirteenth century. The present Hotel de Ville also faces the Place and is well worth a visit, although none of its rooms are sufficiently notable to merit a detailed description. The ancient Châtellenie, now used as Court House, was begun in 1612—the year the Hotel de Ville was finished—and is chiefly memorable as the meeting-place of the Spanish Inquisition. This body held its sessions in the antechamber on the first floor and not in the main hall, which is decorated by a mural painting by de Vriendt representing Philip the Fair swearing to observe the rights and privileges of the city. The establishment of the Inquisition by his namesake and grandson, Philip II, affords a ghastly commentary on the manner in which that monarch kept the similar pledges with which he began his reign. Another fine old edifice on the Grande Place is the Belfry, square for half its height, then octagonal, and finally surmounted by a bulbous spire, heavy and clumsy, but none the less exceedingly quaint and picturesque. Not a few of the ancient houses around the Place and in the adjacent streets were sufficiently mediæval to have merited a visit had our stay in this fine old Flemish town been longer; but, so far as we could learn, none possessed any particular historical interest.

Besides Ste. Walburge, already mentioned—which was evidently planned to be a cathedral, but of which only the choir was ever completed—Furnes possesses the church of St. Nicholas, which has a noble square tower, also unfinished. Both churches are disappointing within, although the former is, no doubt, of great interest to architects as an example of the ogival style, while the latter is Gothic and dates from the fourteenth century. The choir stalls in St. Walburge are notable examples of the Flemish woodcarvers’ art, although far less ancient than the church itself.

If the time of your stay is midsummer, as it will be if you come to Furnes to see the Procession, do not go away without a day on the dunes at Coxyde. This beach is less well known, as yet, than those at Ostende, Heyst and Blankenburghe farther to the east but it is increasing in popularity very rapidly. A land company, with head offices at Brussels, is engaged in erecting summer houses among the dunes which look too American in architecture and manner of construction for this country where houses are generally built as if intended to last a thousand years. A little chemin de fervicinal runs from Furnes to Coxyde. In addition to the splendid beach and the dunes, which have a dreary grandeur that is always fascinating, the shrimp fishermen, or pecheurs de crevettes, will make the short trip well worth while.

These weather-beaten men, with their rough oilskin hats and suits, are the modern representatives of an ancient Flemish industry—shrimp fishing having been carried on along these coasts literally from time immemorial. They are very picturesque, both while at work on horseback dragging in their nets, and while lounging along the shore, pipe in mouth. Jean Delvin has a fine painting representing them in the Museum at Ghent, while one of the most powerful of Meunier’s statues is devoted to the same subject.

CHAPTER VI

NIEUPORT AND THE YSER CANAL

When the war is over, and the era of commemoration begins, Belgium, if she is free, should erect at Nieuport, close to the great locks that mark the outlet of the Yser Canal—or at some point along the canal where the fighting was the fiercest—a monument higher than that at Leipzig where the Germans recall their victory over Napoleon, higher than the great lion that guards the field of Waterloo. At its summit should stand a heroic-sized figure in imperishable bronze of a Belgian infantryman, one of the round-capped “demons” whose indomitable will and unwavering courage held this last bit of Belgian soil against overpowering numbers for days. It was here that Germany’s magnificent rush from Antwerp to the Channel ports was stopped, and it was the last remnant of the little Belgian army that, turning on its foe like a lion at bay, hurled back every assault until the little Yser Canal ran red and until, at last, the great reinforcing hosts of the allies came.

The little straggling town of Nieuport, peaceful and sleepy as it looked last summer, is not a stranger to battles and sieges. In the time of William the Conqueror Lombartzyde, now a little hamlet on the chemin de fer vicinal behind the dunes from Nieuport to Ostende, was the shipping port of this region, but great storms filled the harbour with sand and the citizens established a “New Port” on another branch of the Yser in 1160. It was fortified three years later, and for several centuries was one of the strong towns defending the Low Countries on the French frontier. Its strategic importance made it the scene of many battles and sieges. It was destroyed by the English and their allies, the men of Ghent, in 1383. The lonely tower or Donjon of the Templars, standing on the edge of the town, is all that remains of a monastery of that order which was ruined at that time.

The city itself, however, was quickly rebuilt, and among other memorable sieges beat off a great French force in the year 1489. In 1568 the Spanish, under Condé, beat a French army commanded by Turenne not far from the city. Another famous fight before the walls of the old town took place in the year 1600 during the long war between Spain and her revolted Provinces. Count Maurice of Nassau, at the head of twelve thousand men from the United Provinces, had invaded Flanders, which still remained under the power of Spain, and marching rapidly from the Scheldt past Ostende, proceeded to besiege Nieuport. The Archduke Albert, hastily raising an army of fifteen thousand Spaniards, advanced unexpectedly on the Dutch, who were taken completely by surprise. Perceiving that he was caught in a trap, Count Maurice—in order to give his men the courage of despair—ordered the Dutch fleet to withdraw, and told his soldiers that they must either conquer or “be prepared to drink all the water behind them.”

Meanwhile an advance guard of the Dutch army was driven back by the advancing Spaniards who, thinking they had met the whole army, sent couriers to Bruges and Ghent announcing the victory. Bells were rung to celebrate the Archduke’s supposed success which, as the event proved, was a strategic victory for Nassau as it delayed the enemy several hours. It was three o’clock in the afternoon when the advancing Spaniards found themselves face to face with the main army of the republic, drawn up on the very beach outside the city walls. Perceiving their sturdy ranks and unyielding front the Archduke hesitated, but the Spaniards urged him not to let them lose their prey, whom they regarded as hateful rebels and heretics.

Thus encouraged, the Archduke gave the order to advance and the battle soon became general. The fate of the day was decided by the artillery of the Dutch which, by a fortunate order of their far-sighted commander, had been lifted off from the sand and mounted on platforms made from boughs, brush and such timber as was handy. That of the Archduke, mounted in haste directly on the beach, embedded itself in the sand at each discharge until it became useless, while that of the republicans became more accurate and deadly. At the same time the rays of the setting sun falling directly in the eyes of the Spanish soldiers, who were facing westward, blinded them and caused them to fire wildly. The Archduke performed prodigies of valour, having two horses killed under him and being himself slightly wounded, but as darkness began to fall on the bloody beach Count Maurice ordered a charge by a force of cavalry he had held in reserve. This fresh force proved irresistible, the Spanish lines began to give way on all sides, and the retreat quickly turned into a rout. Even the proud Archduke had to seek safety in flight, and the day, which had begun so auspiciously, ended in one of the greatest disasters of the disastrous war.

Nieuport and its sister cities in this, until lately, half-forgotten corner of Flanders were, in former times, renowned for other contests happily less bloody than these famous battles. Here, during the Middle Ages, flourished a group of societies devoted to rhetoric. In place of the still more ancient tourneys, where armed knights fought with lance and sword, these “Chambers of Rhetoric” held annual contests of oratory. From one end of Flanders to the other the movement spread; and these debating societies did much to cultivate a regard for learning and dialectic skill among the mass of the population. Sternly suppressed by Alva, implacable foe of every form of free thought, these societies were revived after the Spanish scourge was withdrawn, and some of them continue to the present day.

The visitor who wandered around the long, slightly hilly streets of the Nieuport of last July would have had little trouble in locating plenty of the “monuments” of its famous past, although the beach has now receded two or three miles to the northward and pleasant fields extend along the edge of the wide marshes which then were probably part of the sea. A curious old lighthouse with a pointed tower stands about midway between the present town and Nieuport Bains, as the beach town is called, showing where the coastline lay some three hundred and fifty years ago. Even this spot is now too far inland for the light to be seen at sea and a new lighthouse has been built on the rampart of dunes that runs, like a miniature mountain range, almost to Ostende toward the east, and westward to Coxyde and beyond.

Our first visit at Nieuport was to the Tower of the Templars, a huge square pile of brick standing in the midst of a potato patch. This prosaic environment detracted not a little from the sentimental interest of the edifice, and we were unable to get into the structure, although one of the gens d’armes of the village was said to have a key to the low wooden door at its base. Equally disappointing was a visit to the ancient Halle aux Draps, or Cloth Hall, now used on certain days as a local butter market. Here again, the door was locked and no one seemed to know who had the key. Curiously enough, although situated very close to the French frontier, we found in this little town and its neighbours, Dixmude and Furnes, very few people who understood French. Flemish is the universal language hereabouts apparently, but it was only on this little trip that we were at all inconvenienced by our inability to speak it. Elsewhere in Flanders—even at Ypres and Audenaerde, where our friends said we would have trouble—we were able to make our French universally understood.

On the Grande Place, close to the Cloth Hall, we found a little inn, called the Hotel du Pelican, where the Professor proposed that we should get some liquid refreshment. We failed, however, to obtain any response to our raps and thumps on the door, and concluding that the establishment must be run for pelicans only we took ourselves and our patronage elsewhere. The Church of Notre Dame, which stands just off the Grande Place, we found to be a most quaint and interesting old structure dating, it is said, from the thirteenth century. While less imposing externally than St. Nicholas at Furnes its massive square baroque tower was very striking, and formed a fine picture in conjunction with the more slender tower of the Cloth Hall hard by. The approach to the main entrance of the church was beneath some lofty trees and we did not see a solitary human being either outside of the edifice or within it. This church has an interesting jubé or rood loft, a fine wooden pulpit, and we also noticed a curious winding stairway that seemed to lead upward within one of the pillars at the intersection of the transept and the choir. As the tower is not built at this point, but at one end of the edifice, it was quite a mystery where this stairway went and what its purpose might be, but as it seemed exceedingly narrow and dark we did not explore it, nor did we find any one to whom we could apply for information about it.

It was in this church, by the way, or possibly in one of those at Dixmude or Furnes, that the Madame developed a violent antipathy to a certain painting that seems to be one of the most cherished possessions of nearly every church in Flanders. As old Cotton and Increase Mather delighted in scaring and harrowing their audiences with word pictures of the tortures of the burning fiery pit, so nearly every old Flemish artist seems to have delighted in portraying most vividly the sufferings and martyrdoms of the saints, and one subject in particular appears to have caught the fancy of every one of them. This was the beheading of John the Baptist. At times the head is shown rolling in the dust or mire of the street, at times it is represented as being served on a platter—but to one and all of these works of art the Madame objected. This circumstance added not a little to the happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Professor, who were continually contriving to lead her artfully around to inspect some new wonder, which proved to be another representation of this agreeable scene. As works of art they were nearly all atrocities, but as jokes on the Madame they were one and all great successes, and it was really surprising how many of them there were.

The Hotel de Ville, a somewhat commonplace looking structure, is said to contain a small collection of paintings, but we were unable to make any of the phlegmatic gens d’armes whom we found lounging close by take enough interest in our questions to inform us where admission might be obtained. In fact the whole town seemed singularly uninterested in tourists, apparently caring not a bit whether they came or stayed away. While the war will undoubtedly change this, still any one desiring to visit it will do well to make the trip from Ostende or Furnes, returning for the night to some point where hotel accommodations are more adequate. In our case we went over to Ostende, where there are many good hotels. No doubt a pleasant week or month could be spent in this corner of Flanders, but for such a stay the best plan would be to go to one of the many little seaside resorts between Coxyde and Ostende for one’s hotel or pension, and explore the hinterland from there.

The ride by the little chemin de fer vicinal from Nieuport to Ostende is a very interesting one. At the outset the line crosses the huge locks that join the canals to Ostende and Furnes with the tidal river Yser. There are seven or eight bridges in all, the different canals and channels being separated by tiny islands. Had Madame Thebes only suggested that we explore the Yser Canals while we were there last July how much more interesting this part of the book would be! Unfortunately they looked then much as hundreds of other Belgian canals had looked and we gave them only a passing glance. While the newspapers in their accounts of the great battle of Flanders usually spoke of the Yser Canal as though there was but a single canal, in reality there are three canals that flow into the tiny Yser River at this point. One of these runs parallel with the coast to Ostende, and then onward to Bruges and beyond; the second runs behind the range of dunes westward to Furnes, where it divides and crosses the French frontier in two branches, one going to Bergues and the other to Dunkerque. It is the third branch that achieved immortality in the Battle of Flanders. This runs straight inland, at right angles to the other two, following the tortuous channel of the old river much of the way to Dixmude. A short distance beyond Dixmude the canal ceases to follow the River Yser, which here flows eastward from a source well across the French boundary, and ascends the Yser’s smaller tributary, the Yperlée, to Ypres. It did not seem like very much of an obstacle from a military standpoint, but brave hearts can make the most of a small advantage. Below the big locks the little river runs in its own bed to the sea. Here the tide was out the day of our visit and a few small fishing boats were lying tipped over sideways in the mud, while two or three English ladies were busily sketching the not over-picturesque scene. There will be a great many people sketching in this vicinity by and by!

About two miles from Nieuport the train passes the church of Lombartzyde, within which is a statue of the Virgin known among mariners far and wide as the Bonne Mére de Lombartzyde, and who is devoutly believed able to protect the faithful seaman from perils by sea, to aid the farmer in his harvest, to cure the sick and succour the distressed. Many are the little ships, patiently carved by fingers hardened by toil and exposure, that have been reverently hung before the good Virgin’s shrine. There are perhaps fewer now than formerly, but faith in her protection and power is still strong and will probably always continue to be so, for the Flemings are intensely loyal to the church.

Not a few of those who visit these little towns, rich in mementoes of the past, but otherwise apparently very sleepy and dull, wonder what the inhabitants do for amusement. No one who has ever spent a Sunday in a Belgian country village need ask this question. From one end of the country to the other, in the Borinage or mining provinces of the southwest as well as in the Flemish counties of the north, the male population devotes the greater part of the day to what may unhesitatingly be termed the Belgian national sport—archery. In the early part of the Middle Ages Flemish archers were as famous as the longbowmen of Merrie England, and on many a hard fought field they gave a good account of themselves. Curiously enough, the archery societies into which they formed themselves for practice have survived all the wars and changes of the centuries, have continued in spite of the invention of gunpowder and the perfection of firearms—an industry in which Liége, in southern Belgium, has led all other cities—and seem to be as vital a part of the national life of the country as ever they were. The fact that the bow and arrow is an anachronism troubles your Belgian peasant not at all; he shoulders his long bow as cheerfully on a Sunday morning as if he were carrying the latest model of smokeless powder repeater, with Maxim silencer and all modern improvements, instead of a weapon that was out of date and useless five hundred years ago.

As practised in Belgium, archery contests are carried on in two ways. There is first what is known as the Tir á l’oiseau or Perche. In the centre of the village green of the smaller towns, and in some open space in the suburbs of the larger places, the traveller cannot fail to notice what looks like a flag pole, the top of which, however, tapers to a slender point, from just beneath which four short arms point upward diagonally, while three cross arms are placed horizontally below them. On these are fixed the oiseaux, or birds—blocks of cork covered with tinsel or gaily-coloured paper, each with a tuft of feathers stuck at the top. The archers gather below the pole and shoot upward, aiming at the “birds” and endeavouring to knock them off cleanly. Each shoots in turn, and the prizes—which have been duly announced by posters for days beforehand—go to those capturing one of the “birds,” the value varying according to its position. In the contests entitled “Tir du Roi,” the archer bringing down the last bird wins the largest prize and is called the “Roi,” or King, and as by that time the archers have one and all consumed a goodly portion of their favourite beverages there is general hilarity—especially if the victor is a popular favourite. Immemorial custom decrees that the King should deal liberally with his subjects and dispense in libations whatever sum he may have gained as a prize, after which he is usually escorted, or if necessary carried, home in great state with a band in advance and all the members of the contest following in a disorderly, but jolly, crowd.

The second form of contest is known as the “Tir au berceau,” and consists of shooting at a target. The birds, in this case, are fastened about the bull’s eye. The archers stand at a distance of one hundred metres from the target, which is usually placed at the rear of a walled court or garden. Generally a series of wooden arches placed at intervals along the line of fire serve to arrest any arrows that go wild, while the back of the target is reinforced strongly with straws about a foot long laid lengthwise with the line of the shooting and packed under great pressure. There is invariably a public café or estaminet attached to the places where archery contests au berceau are conducted, while such places are always found close by the spot where a Tir á l’oiseau takes place. Between shots the men consume liberal quantities of lambic, faro, or the beer of some neighbouring brewer, and discuss politics or the news of the day. A circumstance that renders disorders comparatively rare is that each archery society consists of men of a single party. The Catholics have their favourite places that are patronised exclusively by Catholics, while the Socialists in the southern provinces, where that party is strong, have their own societies and places of rendezvous. The clergy are heartily interested in the Catholic contests, giving liberal prizes and attending in considerable numbers to cheer the victors and console the vanquished.

During the early part of the war numerous references were made in the despatches to the marvellous accuracy of the Belgian riflemen. To one who has attended scores of these archery contests it is not surprising that the Belgians are good shots. Out of date though the bow and arrow is, yet the sport cannot fail to train the eye and hand, and constant rivalry in such a pastime has made the Belgians literally a nation of sharpshooters. On one occasion the writer and a friend took a couple of shots with a carbine in one of the little shooting galleries that accompanied a village kermesse. We both missed. A young man standing by, who worked in the village sugar mill, politely asked which of the various pipes and other objects we were aiming at. We indicated one of them and, zip! his bullet had shattered it. Half a dozen shots in quick succession at different objects we pointed out proved equally accurate. It was an exhibition of marksmanship such as one frequently sees on the stage in the United States, but being made by a casual bystander in a village street it was most impressive. Nor was the lad, as I took pains to inquire, noted particularly for his skill in this direction—having seldom won prizes in the official contests.

All ages join in this sport, the small boys erecting diminutive poles in the fields around the villages, where they imitate their elders with toy bows and arrows, while men of seventy or eighty take their turn with beardless youths in the prize competitions. While I was visiting in the Borinage two years ago the uncle of my hostess shouldered his two-metre bow and started off to a “meet” despite his eighty-seven years. What is more, his hand had lost none of its strength and firmness, and his eyes none of their keenness, for twice while I was present he brought down one of the “birds,” and I later learned that he had won one of the principal prizes. Only the year before he had been crowned “King” at one such contest, and the first time he ever won that coveted honour was when he was sixteen—or seventy-one years before. I doubt whether there is any athletic game in the world of which the devotees can point to a longer record of success.

This fine old athlete had two brothers older than himself alive at the time, the combined ages of the three aggregating two hundred and eighty years. One of them, aged ninety-four, recently expressed some anxiety as to what would become of him in the event of the death of the daughter with whom he was living.

“What will I do if Amèlie should die?” he asked of one of his other daughters.

“Why, papa, then you would come and live with me,” she replied, adding with a flash of characteristic Belgian humour, “and when I am dead you’ll go to live with Fèlicienne” (a grand-daughter still in her ’teens). As this provided safely for his future for at least another fifty years, the old gentleman was greatly relieved, feeling perhaps that if he survived Fèlicienne her children would by that time be old enough to take care of him.

While archery is everywhere the dominating pastime of the working class it is by no means the only form of popular amusement. The bicycle has not yet gone out of vogue in Belgium, and societies exist in hundreds of cities and communes for the encouragement of bicycle racing. The day of our arrival in the village where Tante Rosa spread for us the banquet mentioned in the second chapter, we were so fortunate as to witness the final sprint of a twenty-five kilometre race. A score of contestants had pedalled ten times over a course consisting for the most part of roadways paved with ragged cobble-stones, the rest being dirt roads filled with mud puddles owing to a recent rain. The riders, as they rushed by, were literally covered with mud and had evidently struggled hard to gain one of the five prizes which aggregated, as we afterwards learned, the munificent sum of eighty francs, sixteen dollars, of which the winner received thirty—six dollars!

Another favourite form of recreation is the racing of pigeons, and societies for the promotion of this sport exist in every part of the Kingdom. Frequently the birds fly from one end of the country to the other and many examples of remarkable speed have been reported, the winners bringing comparatively high prices:

No better idea of the variety of popular amusements can be given than to take the programme of one little commune that I had an opportunity of copying, entitled “Fêtes Communales de 1914”—this announcement being printed in French and Flemish. While many of the events were evidently organised by various societies the officials of the commune assumed responsibility for the proper conduct of the contests, and either provided the prizes or contributed a substantial sum toward them, the rest being raised by a fee exacted from each contestant which varied from one franc, thirty centimes for the smaller events to five francs for the more important ones. With one hundred contestants this would yield one hundred and thirty francs, to which the commune usually added fifty, making one hundred and eighty francs available in all. For the chief events the prizes aggregate 1,000 to 2,000 francs—quite a respectable sum for a commune of six thousand inhabitants. The difference between archery contests au berceau and à la perche has already been explained. The programme, much abbreviated, follows:

Sun., Apr. 19.—Archery contests, both au berceau and perche.

Sun., Apr. 26.—Archery contest, au berceau, and rifle contest (carbines).

Fri., May 1.—Fête du Travail (Labor Day) Archery contest and popular ball on a public square in the evening—dancing in the street, rain or shine.

Sun., May 10.—Rifle contest.

Thurs., May 21.—Archery contest.

Sun., May. 24.—Annual Fair with archery contests of both kinds, rifle contest and grand concert in evening with two bands.

Sun., May 31.—Kermesse, with archery contests of both kinds and a popular out-door ball in the evening.

Sun., June 7.—Bicycle Race—outdoor course around the village ten times, 25 kilometres.

Sun., June 14.—Archery contest au berceau and Tir du Roi (perche).

Sun., June 21.—Kermesse in another quarter of the commune, with rifle contest and concert in evening, followed by popular ball.

Sun. to Tues., July 5, 6, 7,—Annual Kermesse in the centre of the commune, with archery contest (perche) on Sunday, au berceau on Monday, and Tir du Roi with public games and sports on Tuesday. Itinerant amusement enterprises of all kinds make these annual kermesses a miniature Coney Island while they last.