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
