Another room of great interest is the Salle Echevinale, where for five centuries the magistrates of Ypres held their sessions. Between 1322 and 1468 local artists painted on the wall above the three Gothic arches in this room a frieze comprising portraits of the early Counts and Countesses of Flanders, beginning with Louis of Nevers and ending with Charles the Bold. When the French occupied the town in 1794 they covered these “emblems of superstition and portraits of tyrants” with a thick coat of whitewash which was only accidentally knocked off in 1844, exposing a bit of the ancient and still brilliantly coloured painting. The discovery created quite a sensation, as the very existence of this work had been forgotten, and a native artist was commissioned to remove the whitewash and restore the paintings, which he did in a manner that is not entirely satisfactory, but none the less gives us an opportunity to view once more this interesting work—one of the earliest pieces of mural painting in Flanders. On the north wall of this room is a modern fresco by Godefroid Guffens, representing “The State Entry of Philip the Bold” in 1384, while on the other side of the room is a monumental Flemish chimney-piece carved by Malfait of Brussels, with mural paintings on each side by Jean Swerts—like Guffens, a painter of the modern Antwerp school. These represent the Magistrates of Ypres issuing an order regarding the maintenance of the poor, in 1515; and the visit of the Magistrates to one of the Free Schools founded in 1253—thus illustrating the early interest taken by the commune in free education and public charities.
Leaving this interesting building we went across a small roughly paved square to the Church of St. Martin, which dates from the thirteenth century, and was for many centuries a cathedral. The unfinished square tower was erected in 1433. The choir is Romano-ogival, while the nave and aisles are early Gothic, and the edifice has many other peculiar features of interest to students of architecture. It contains the usual paintings, of which none are of remarkable interest, and some excellent choir stalls. The most famous of the Bishops of St. Martin, while it was a Cathedral Church, was Jansenius, one of the leading figures in the Reformation, who died of the Plague in 1638. His great work on St. Augustine occupied twenty-two years of his life while at Ypres and caused a tremendous discussion. It was finally declared to be heretical, but its teachings had already given rise to an ardent group of followers of the learned Flemish churchman, who were called Jansenists. The archives of the city and church contain much interesting material regarding this celebrated mediæval theologian. His tomb, which still stands in the church of which he was once the head, formerly contained a long and highly eulogistic inscription, which, by an order from the Pope in 1655, was cut down to the bare remnant that still remains.
The Grande Place of Ypres is another of the surprises that this tiny city has to offer to those unacquainted with its history, for it is one of the largest in all Flanders—a veritable Sahara of a Place on a hot summer day, albeit a Sahara bordered with many pleasant oases where cooling drinks, if they do not bubble up from the ground, can at least be had without much difficulty. During most of the week the vast paved space is almost deserted, save for an occasional peasant’s cart that rumbles slowly and clumsily across it, but on market-days it is full of picturesque and swarming life. Then the peasants come in from the countryside by the thousand, while the itinerant hucksters and pedlars who, in Belgium travel from one fair or market-place to another, set up their canvas-covered booths in long streets from one side of the Grande Place to the other. The country people press along between these rows of tiny shops and haggle energetically with the proprietors for whatever takes their fancy. An astounding variety of wares are offered for sale on these market days—dress goods of every description in the great Cloth Hall, which for a brief moment reflects a feeble glimmer of its ancient glory; ready-made garments for man, woman and child; footwear, headwear, and every conceivable kind of hardware, of tinware, of crockery. In short, the display is a veritable department store, for the most part cheap stuff, it is true, but now and then one runs across laces for which the prices asked are quite high. Then, of course, there is the inevitable array of everything possible to eat—from the butchers’ stalls in the basement of the Cloth Hall to the huckster selling live chickens from a bag on the corner, and the scores of stands selling fruits and vegetables of every seasonable variety.
At last, however, the market comes to an end, the hucksters and market gardeners take down their booths and drive away in their heavy Flemish carts; the country people, after a more or less protracted visit to the places of refreshment around the Place and in the adjacent streets, go homeward, and the Grande Place settles down again into its sleep of centuries. While we were there the moon was at its full, and as its white light fell upon the grass-grown Place and the huge grey mass of the Cloth Hall it was not hard to picture the old days come back again and review, in fancy, some of the stirring times that the old houses around it have looked down upon. The great bell in the Cloth Hall tower rings and from far and wide come hurrying throngs of sturdy artisans, with their lances, pikes and clubs. The Serments, or oath-bound corporations, take their positions gravely and in good order—men of substance these, portly, well-fed, and prosperous. Then the Métiers, or lesser craftsmen, assemble—no doubt more noisily and boisterously, as would be expected from their rougher class and lower breeding. Each of the four hundred guilds assembles around its respective banner, the Count and others of the nobility come riding up; and with them, on terms of full equality, the commanders of the citizen soldiery confer. Then, as the trumpets sound, or mayhap the great bell peals again, the hosts march off in serried ranks to the city gates, or to take their positions along the walls. The old streets echo to the sound of their tramping feet, the noise of their shouts and cries dies away, and once more the still moonlight falls upon the deserted old Place.
As we sat in one of the cafés facing the Cloth Hall, our minds filled with these and other fancies of the olden days—the moonlight, the old houses all around us, and the many quaint and ancient things we had seen during the day all contributing to the dreamy sense of enchantment—the Professor told us something of the legend and history of that far-off thirteenth century when much of the Ypres we had seen that day was built. It was an age when men firmly believed in magic and fairies and delighted in tales of mystery and enchantment. Some of the most famous stories told by the old Flemish chroniclers relate to the career of Baldwin IX, who came to be known as Baldwin of Constantinople. After the long and wise reigns of Dierick of Alsace and his son Philip, Flanders had become one of the richest and most prosperous countries in Europe. The French, who looked upon its fertile plains and fair cities with covetous eyes, composed these lines, which no doubt expressed their sincere conviction:
“La plus belle Comté est La Flandre,
La plus belle Duché est La Bourgogne,
La plus belle Royaume est France.”
Baldwin was not only Count of Flanders, but also Count of Hainaut, of which Mons was the capital—his dominions therefore extending from the North Sea to the River Meuse and including much of the Ardennes. It was in this region—the true fairy-land of Belgium—that the Count met with an adventure, according to certain of the chroniclers, which gave his reign a most sinister beginning. It happened in this wise. The Count was very fond of hunting, and very neglectful of the duty his loyal subjects felt that he owed to them—of getting married and securing children to insure the succession. For nothing was more disastrous to a country than to have its line of princes die out, leaving their title to be fought for by all who felt themselves strong enough to seize it. The Count was to have married Beatrice of France, the most beautiful princess in Christendom, but to the neglect of this important matter he went hunting in the Ardennes, where from time immemorial the wild boars have been very large and fierce.