An association, called the Brotherhood of St. Ivoy, formerly met in this church, which was composed of the most distinguished members of the bar, who gave advice to the poor, and bore the expense of any legal process which it might be necessary to institute for them out of a common fund. This law hospital has not, however, survived the revolution of 1830. The music and choir of St. Michael’s are remarkably fine, the organ is of extraordinary richness and volume, and nothing could possibly be more sublime than its melodious tones resounding amidst the “dim religious light” of the old gothic church, when
“Through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.”
In the church of St. Sauveur, Rue des Prêtres, there is a painting of the “Descent from the Cross,” by Van Hanslaere, one of the most distinguished living artists of Belgium, and in that of St. Peter, a copy by Van Thulden, from Rubens’ picture of the Triumph of Truth over Luther and Calvin, who are represented in the agonies of annihilation, trampled underfoot by the rampant followers of Truth, who are pursuing their disciples in all directions. In the foreground, a lion is introduced allegorically, pawing a wolf whom he has just strangled, emblematic, no doubt, of the fall of heresy under the hands of the church.
We drove to the village of Gavre, about ten miles from Ghent, to dine at the villa of M. Grenier, a very splendid house recently erected upon one of the very few elevated points, for it cannot be called a hill, which are to be found in Flanders, and which, from the vast level plain over which it rises, commands a most enchanting view; the ancient town of Audenarde lying immediately in front, and the “lazy Scheldt” winding its devious way amidst innumerable hamlets, woods and villages as far as the eye could reach.
It was at Gavre, that the Duke of Marlborough encamped on his triumphal march from Ramillies, where, after taking all the intervening cities and strong-holds of Flanders, together with Audenarde and Ghent, almost in the space of a week, he addresses thence to the Duchess the remarkable letter, in which he says, “so many towns have submitted since the battle, that it really looks more like a dream than truth,” and in another place, he says, “I am so persuaded that this campaign will give us a good peace, that I beg of you to do all you can that our house at Woodstock may be carried up as much as possible, that I may have a prospect of living in it.”
It was the fête of some saint in the villages through which we drove, and every country inn seemed full of enjoyment; tents filled with dancers, and parties engaged in athletic games before the doors. In one place a considerable crowd were assembled round the maypole to shoot with the bow at the popinjay. This is a favourite exercise of the Flemings, who are exceedingly expert in it, the company which we passed, was composed indifferently of the gentry and peasants, who seemed to enter into it with equal spirit. At Ghent, there is an association for the purpose of practising the use of the bow, called the Confrères de Saint George, a relic of the time when every district of Flanders had a similar society, all which used to meet at Ghent to contend for the prize, and the successful town caused a mass to be celebrated in honour of the victor, and gave to the poor the scarlet cloaks, laced with gold, which had been worn as the costume of the day.
The roads through this part of Belgium are made like those of France, with a raised pavé in the centre only, a custom enforced, in a great part, by the great expense of bringing stones from a distance for their construction, scarcely any being to be found in Flanders or the west. The bye-roads being all across sand, unconsolidated in any way, are all but impassable.
The Belgian hour for dinner is equally early with that of the tables-d’hôte, being from two to three or four o’clock, and as there is no prolonged sitting for wine afterwards, the entertainment ends before we in England think of dressing for dinner. The cuisine at M. Grenier’s was altogether French, including, however, some dishes peculiarly Flemish, amongst others, the large smoked ham, which is an invariable accompaniment at every table throughout Belgium, and seems to be in as high estimation now, as when Rome was supplied with them by the ancient Menapii of the Ardennes; it comes to table decorated by a chased silver handle screwed on to the shank bone, to avoid using the fork in carving it. Another national dish was the hareng frais, herring pickled like anchovies, and used like them without further cooking: it is, however, equally common in Holland, where the fishery is of high importance—in Belgium it is rapidly declining.
The style of everything in M. Grenier’s establishment, and in those of the same rank where we had the honour to visit, was essentially French, his family having been educated in Paris, and the conversation was of course in French, although every one at table seemed to understand English perfectly. Flemish is spoken only by the peasantry and the working classes. The account given of it as a dialect was, that “Dutch is bad German, and Flemish bad Dutch.” It is, however, by no means inharmonious, and in point of antiquity, I was told by Count d’Hane, that the earliest printed comedy in Europe still exists in Flemish. A stroll in the grounds after dinner, and music and singing on our return to the drawing-room concluded an exceedingly agreeable evening, and we returned early to Ghent.