The dying old man spoke the truth. The Emperor was then in Spain and matters connected with the government of his world-encircling realm demanded for the moment his attention, but he was none the less kept well informed as to what was going on in his native city, where affairs meanwhile progressed from bad to worse, until a veritable state of anarchy prevailed. When Charles learned of the virtual insurrection against his authority that prevailed, and of the death of Liévin Pyn, he was furious and vowed to inflict upon the rebellious city a vengeance that would deter all other cities in the empire from ever following its example. Slowly, but with a deliberateness that boded ill for the foolhardy rabble who for the moment guided the destinies of the commune, the Emperor made his preparations for a trip to the Low Countries. Two months after the execution of Pyn it became known in the city that their puissant sovereign was on his way. The news filled the mutineers with terror. No longer was Ghent in the proud position she had occupied under the Counts of Flanders and the first Dukes of Burgundy—the premier city of the realm and a foe to be respected and even feared. The power of Charles V was too vast for even the most ignorant to think of armed resistance to his authority, now that he was about to assert it in person. Many of those responsible for the period of anarchy fled, others went into hiding.
Early in the year 1540 the Emperor arrived at Cambrai, proceeding next to Valenciennes and Brussels. Meanwhile a strong force of German soldiers entered the city—meeting with no resistance from its now thoroughly terrified inhabitants, many of whom no doubt wished they could restore the dead Doyen des Métiers, whom they had so cruelly sacrificed, to life again that he might plead their cause with the dreaded Emperor. They had good reason to tremble, for in a few days the ring-leaders of the late troubles began to be arrested and all men were forbidden, under penalty of death, to harbour them or aid them to escape their sovereign’s wrath. A few days later nine of the mutineers were executed on the Place Ste. Pharaïlde where Liévin Pyn had perished at their hands six months before. The magistrates were now filled with terror and abjectly pleaded for mercy. The Emperor haughtily replied that he knew how to be merciful and also how to do justice, and that he would presently give judgment on the city “in such a manner that it would never be forgotten and others would take therefrom an example.”
This disquieting response was followed by the Emperor’s famous visit to the top of the cathedral tower in company with the Duke of Alva. It was on this occasion that the latter, with the ferocity that afterwards made his name a by-word for cruelty for future ages, counselled his sovereign to utterly destroy the rebellious city. To this the Emperor responded with the bon mot that showed at once his sense of humour and his moderation. Pointing to the wide-spreading red roofs of the populous city he asked, “How many Spanish skins do you think it would take to make a glove (Gand, the French spelling of Ghent, also means glove) as large as this?”
PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF ALVA BY A. MORO.
Meanwhile, under the direct supervision of the Emperor, a huge citadel began to be erected on the site of the ancient little town surrounding the Abbey of St. Bavon—a choice that involved the destruction of many of the Abbey buildings. The Emperor, while this work was going on, remained at the Princenhof where he held his court, but gave no sign as to what the fate of the city was to be. It was not until April 29th, 1540, that he finally—in the presence of a great throng of princes, nobles and the members of his Grand Council, with the city magistrates on their knees at his feet—gave his long delayed decision. In a loud voice the Imperial herald first read a list of thirty-five crimes committed by the people of the city, declaring them guilty of dèsléalté, désobéyssance, infraction de traictés, sedition, rébellion et de léze-magesté. In consequence of these crimes the sentence deprived them forever of their privileges, rights, and franchises. It directed that the charters, together with the red and black books in which they were registered, should be turned over to the Emperor to do with them as he pleased, and it was forbidden ever again to invoke or appeal to them. It pronounced the confiscation of all the goods, rents, revenues, houses, artillery and war material belonging to the city or to the Métiers. It confiscated the great bell Roland and decreed that it must be taken down. It further directed that three days later the magistrates, thirty members of the bourgeois or middle class, the Doyen of the weavers, six men from each Métier and fifty “creesers” should beg pardon of the Emperor and Queen. The suppliants on this occasion were dressed in black, with heads and feet bare, and cords about their necks, and were compelled to beg the pardon of the Emperor on their knees in the market-place. Besides this public degradation the magistrates were required to wear the cords about their necks thereafter during the exercise of their functions. It is said, however, that before very long the hemp was converted into a rich cord of gold and silk, which they wore as a scarf—as if it were a badge of honour instead of one of disgrace.
The walls of the city were to be still further demolished, and the sovereign reserved the right to specify later which towers, gates and walls should be torn down to erect the citadel. Finally, a heavy money indemnity was exacted, and the following day a new code of laws in sixty-five articles was promulgated—the famous Concession Caroline—which served as the basis of government until the end of the old régime during the French Revolution. The city, no doubt, breathed a sigh of relief that the Emperor exacted no further toll of human life, but the conditions were none the less heavy enough. In brief, these terms ended, once and for all, every vestige of self-government, and swept away all of the privileges for which the burghers had fought for so many centuries. The year 1540 marks the end, therefore, of the long and brilliant history of the Flemish communes—for no other city dared resist the Emperor’s authority after this—and thereafter Flanders became a mere province in the wide dominions of sovereigns who seldom visited its cities and frequently did not even speak the language of its people.
Among the tombstones in the Cathedral of St. Bavon one that deserves more than a passing glance is that of Bishop Triest. Designed by the celebrated sculptor, Jerome Duquesnoy, it is a notable example of Flemish sculpture, besides possessing an added interest by reason of the fact that the artist sought to destroy it when complete. More important, however, than the monument and its story is the fact that Bishop Triest was the father of the art of horticulture for which Ghent is so renowned today. It was in his gardens—which were famous throughout the seventeenth century—that rare and exotic plants were for the first time planted out of doors in Flanders and trained to grow in the form of pyramids, arches, summer-houses, and a hundred fantastic shapes. The “Belvedere Gardens” of the worthy prelate became the model for other gardeners, and the seed, planted in fertile soil, from which sprang a great industry.
Not content with cultivating his own gardens the Bishop sought to encourage in every way the humble gardeners of the city, giving them his august protection, his friendly counsel, making loans to the needy, and uniting them into a society under the patronage of St. Amand and Ste. Dorothy. This noble example was speedily followed by the city, which also encouraged the horticulturists. In 1640 William de Blasère, an alderman of the city, constructed the first hothouse ever seen in Europe. It was a hundred feet long, made of wood and glass, heated with huge stoves, and sufficiently high to accommodate the exotic plants that, in summertime, were set outdoors. This novelty made a great stir and brought many visitors to Ghent. Soon afterward a society of horticulturists was founded, and by the end of the century a botanical garden was established.
In the opening years of the nineteenth century this institution very nearly came to an end. It was costly to keep up, produced little or no revenue, and Napoleon, who was then First Consul and included Ghent in his rapidly widening dominions, decided that it should be suppressed. A friend of the garden skilfully took advantage of a visit of Josephine to Ghent to enlist her aid in persuading her husband to spare it. Inviting the future empress to visit the establishment, he contrived that the plants and flowers should plead their own cause. Between two palms at the entrance he had a huge placard suspended bearing the words: “Ave, Cæsar, morituri te salutamus.” Then, along the different walks, each flower and plant bore a card proportionate to its size and containing a verse alluding to its approaching destruction. Naturally surprised at this outburst of poetry on the part of the “nymphs” of the garden, as the flowers styled themselves in their effusions, Josephine inquired the reason for it. This gave her conductor his opportunity, and he pleaded for the preservation of the garden with such ardour and eloquence that he won her assurance that if her wishes had any weight his beautiful garden should be preserved and its “nymphs” should not perish in exile. The event proved that he had secured a powerful ally, for the edict of the First Consul was rescinded and the garden was saved.