Peeps at Many Lands: Belgium

by George W. T. Omond

Suppose we land at Ostend, which, as you will see on the map, lies in the middle of the Belgian coast. It is the largest of the seaside towns, and one of the oldest. In ancient times it was fortified, and during the wars between the Spaniards and the Dutch the Spaniards defended it for three whole years. It must have been very strong in those days. But now it is quite changed, and has no walls, but just a long digue, and a great many hotels, lodging-houses, and big shops. Crowds of people go there in summer. There are horse-races, concerts, dancing, and a great deal of gambling. One part of the beach in front of the digue is crowded with bathing-machines, and it is said that during one day in August a few years ago no fewer than 7,000 people bathed.

Ostend, however, is not a nice place to stay in. In summer it is noisy, and full of people who care for nothing but eating, drinking, dressing up, and gambling. In winter it is an ugly, dull, stupid town, in which there is nothing to do, and nothing to see except fishing-boats and the steamers which carry travellers to and from Dover. So we shall not say anything more about it, but take the train, and in twenty minutes find ourselves in a really interesting place.

This is Bruges. They call it Bruges la Morte—that is to say, "Bruges, the Dead City." Once upon a time, long, long ago, this town was great, and rich, and prosperous. It was surrounded by strong walls, and within it were many gilded palaces, the homes of merchant princes whose wealth was the talk of all the world. Their houses were full of precious stones, tapestries, silk, fine linen, and cloth of gold. Their warehouses were stored with costly bales. They lent money to Kings and Princes, and lived themselves in almost royal luxury. A broad channel led from the sea to Bruges, and ships entered daily laden with goods from every country in Europe, as well as from India and all parts of the world. In those days the cloth made by the Flemish weavers was famous, and the greatest market for wool was at Bruges.

So Bruges grew richer and richer, and much money was spent in beautifying the town, in which there are said to have been 200,000 industrious people. Churches rose, and other noble buildings. There were endless tournaments and festivals. Painters flourished there. Bruges was spoken of as the Venice of the North.

But all this came to an end. The channel which joined this great city to the sea dried up. There were wars and rebellions which drove the foreign merchants away. They went to Antwerp. Bruges fell, and has remained fallen ever since.

It is now a quiet, sad place, so poor that the streets are badly lighted, seldom cleaned, and have a desolate, neglected appearance. The few families of the upper class who live there belong to what is called the petite noblesse; there is almost no trade or commerce; and many of the lower orders live on charity.

But this dead city is very romantic, with all its memories of olden times. Nobody should go to Belgium without visiting Bruges, once so famous and now so fallen, not only because it is picturesque, with its old buildings and quaint views such as artists love to paint, but also because it is so quiet that you can watch the customs of a Belgian town without being disturbed by a crowd—the market-folk with their wares spread out on the stones of the street, the small carts drawn by dogs, the women sitting at their doors busy with lace-making, the pavements occupied by tables at which people sit drinking coffee or beer, the workmen clanking along in their wooden shoes, and numberless little things which are different from what you see at home.

Every town in Belgium has its "belfry," a tower rising over some venerable building, from which, in the days of almost constant warfare, a beacon used to blaze, or a bell ring out, to call the citizens to arms. The belfry of Bruges is, I think, the finest of them all. If you have ever been to Bruges you can never forget it. It rises high above the market-place. All day long, year after year, the chimes ring every quarter of an hour; and all night too, unceasingly, through winter storm and summer moonlight, the belfry pours forth its perpetual lament over the dead city.