The two large and impressive stone towers flanking a bridge of three arches over the small sluggish river Lys were those of the celebrated Broel, dating from the fourteenth century. The towers were called respectively the “Speytorre” and the “Inghelbrugtorre.” The first named on the south side of the river formed part of the ancient “enceinte” of the first chateau of Philip of Alsace, and was erected in the twelfth century, and famed with the chateau of Lille, as the most formidable strongholds of Flanders. The “Inghelbrugtorre” was erected in 1411-13, and strongly resembles its sister tower opposite. It was furnished with loopholes for both archers and for “arquebusiers,” as well as openings for the discharge of cannon and the casting of molten pitch and lead upon the heads of besiegers after the fashion of warfare as conducted during the wars of the Middle Ages. The Breton soldiers under Charles the Eleventh attacked and almost razed this great stronghold in 1382.

A sleepy old custode whom we aroused took us down into horrible dungeons, where, with a dripping tallow candle, he showed us some iron rings attached to the dripping walls below the surface of the river where prisoners of state were chained in former times, and told us that the walls here were three or four yards thick. The town was one of beauty and great charm, and here we stopped for a week in a most delightfully kept small hotel on the square, which was bordered with fine large trees, both linden and chestnut.

The town was famed in history for the Great Battle of the Spurs which took place outside the walls, in the year 1302, on the plains of Groveninghe. History mentions the fact that “seven hundred golden spurs were picked up afterwards on the battlefield and hung in the cathedral.” These we were unable to locate.

The water of the Lys, flowing through the town and around the remains of the ancient walls, was put to practical use by the inhabitants in the preparation of flax, for which the town was renowned.

It ranked with the old city of Bruges in importance up to 1914, when it had some thirty-five thousand inhabitants. In the middle of the beflowered Grand’ Place stood a quaint brick belfry containing a good chime of bells, and on market days when surrounded with the farmers’ green wagons and the lines of booths about which the people gathered chaffering, its appearance was picturesque enough to satisfy anyone, even the most blase of travelers. The belfry had four large gilt clock faces, and its bells could be plainly seen through the windows hanging from the huge beams. On the tower were gilded escutcheons, and a couple of armor-clad statues in niches. There was a fine church dedicated to Notre Dame, which was commenced by Baldwin in 1199, and a very beautiful “Counts Chapel” with rows of statues of counts and countesses of Flanders whose very names were forgotten.

Here was one of the few remaining “Béguinages” of Flanders, which we might have overlooked but for the kindness of a passerby who, seeing that we were strangers, pointed out the doorway to us.

On either hand were small houses through the windows of which one could see old women sitting bowed over cushions rapidly moving the bobbins over the lace patterns. A heavy black door gave access to the Béguinage, a tiny retreat, Noye de Silence, inaugurated, tradition says, in 1238, by Jean de Constantinople, who gave it as a refuge for the Sisters of St. Bogga. And here about a small grass grown square in which was a statue of the saint, dwelt a number of self-sacrificing women, bound by no vow, who had consecrated their lives to the care of the sick and needy.

We spent an hour in this calm and fragrant retreat, where there was no noise save the sweet tolling of the convent bell, and the cooing of pigeons on the ridge pole of the chapel.

In the square before the small station was a statue, which after questioning a number of people without result, I at length found to be that of Jean Palfyn who, my informant assured me, was the inventor of the forceps, and expressed surprise that I should be so interested in statuary as to care “who it was.” He asked me if I was not English and when I answered that I was an American, looked somewhat dazed, much as if I had said “New Zealander” or “Kamschatkan,” and was about to ask me some further question, but upon consideration thought better of it, and turned away shrugging his shoulders.

To show how well the river Lys is loved by the people, I quote here a sort of prose poem by a local poet, one Adolph Verriest. It is called “Het Leielied.”

“La Lys flows over the level fields of our beautiful country, its fecund waters reflecting the blue of our wondrous Flemish landscape. Active and diligent servant, it seems to work ever to our advantage, multiplying in its charming sinuosities its power for contributing to our prosperity, accomplishing our tasks, and granting our needs. It gives to our lives ammunition and power. The noise of busy mills and the movement of bodies of workmen in its banks is sweet music in our ears, in tune to the rippling of its waters.

“A silver ribbon starred with the blue corn-flower, the supple textile baptised in its soft waters is transformed by the hand of man into cloudy lace, into snowy linen, into fabrics of filmy lightness for my lady’s wear, La Lys, name significant and fraught with poetry for us giving life to the germ of the flax which it conserves through all its life better than any art of the chemist in the secret chambers of his laboratory.

“Thanks to this gracious river, our lovely town excels in napery and is known throughout all the world. In harvest time the banks of the Lys are thronged with movement, the harvesters in quaint costumes, their bodies moving rhythmically to the words of the songs they sing, swinging the heavy bundles of flax from the banks to the level platforms, where it is allowed to sleep in the water, and later the heavy wagons are loaded to the cadence of other songs appropriate to the work. Large picturesque colored windmills wave their brown velvety hued sails against the piled up masses of cloud, and over all is intense color, life and movement.

“The river plays then a most important part in the life on the Flemish plains about Courtrai, giving their daily bread to the peasants, and lending poetry to their existence. So, O Lys, our beautiful benefactor, we love you.”

At this writing (March, 1916) Courtrai is still occupied by the troops of the German Kaiser, and with the exception of the destruction of the Broel towers, the church of St. Martin, and the Old Belfry in the market place, the town is said to be “intact.”

Whenever possible we traveled through the Flemish littoral on the small steam trams, “chemins-de-fer-vicinaux,” as they are called in French, in the Flemish tongue “Stoomtram,” passing through fertile green meadows dotted with fat, sleek, black and white cows, and embossed with shining silvery waterways connecting the towns and villages. We noticed Englishy cottages of white stucco and red tiled roofs, amid well kept fields and market gardens in which both men and women seemed to toil from dawn to dewy evening. Flanders before the war was simply covered with these light railways. The little trains of black carriages drawn by puffing covered motors, discharging heavy black clouds of evil-smelling smoke and oily soot, rushed over the country from morning until night, and the clanging of the motorman’s bell seemed never ending.

To see the country thus was a privilege, and was most interesting, for one had to wait in the squares of the small towns, or at other central places until the corresponding motor arrived before the journey could proceed. Here there was a sort of exchange established where the farmers compared notes as to the rise or fall in commodities, or perchance the duty upon beets and potatoes.

Loud and vehement was the talk upon these matters; really, did one not know the language, one might have fancied that a riot was imminent.

One morning we halted at a small village called Gheluwe, where the train stopped beside a white-washed wall, and everyone got out, as the custom is. There seemed no reason for stopping here, for we were at some distance from the village, the spire of which could be seen above a belt of heavy trees ahead. The morning was somewhat chilly, and the only other occupant of the compartment was a young cleric with a soiled white necktie. He puffed away comfortably at a very thin, long, and evil-smelling “stogie” which he seemed to enjoy immensely, and which in the Flemish manner he seemed to eat as he smoked, eyeing us the while amicably though absent mindedly, as if we were far removed from his vicinity. As we neared the stopping place, two very jolly young farmer boys raced with the train in their quaint barrow-like wagon painted a bright green, and drawn by a pair of large dogs who foamed and panted past us “ventre a terre,” with red jaws and flopping tongues.

Had we not known of this breed of dogs we might have fancied, as many strangers do, that Flemish dogs are badly treated, but this is not the case. These dogs are very valuable, worth sometimes as much as five hundred francs (about $100).

Inspections of these dogs are held regularly by the authorities. The straps and the arrangement of the girths are tested lest they should chafe the animal, and, I am told, the law now requires that a piece of carpet be carried for the animal to lie upon when resting, and a drinking bowl also has been added to the equipment of each cart. The dogs do not suffer. They are bred for the cart, and are called “chiens de traite,” so that the charge of cruelty upon the part of ignorant tourists may be dismissed as untrue. There is a society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, and it is not unusual to see its sign displayed in the market places, with the caution “Traitez les animaux avec douceur.” Rarely if ever is a case brought into court by the watchful police.

The young cleric gazed at us inquiringly, as if he expected to hear us exclaim about the cruelty to animals, but catching his eye I smiled, and said something about “ces bons chiens,” at which he seemed relieved, and nodded back grinning, but he did not remove the stogie from his mouth.

Priests in Flanders seemed to enjoy much liberty of action, and do things not possible elsewhere. For instance, at Blankenberghe, a fashionable watering place on the coast, I saw a prosperous, well-fed one (if I may so characterize him without meaning any offense) dining at the Great Gasthof on the digue, who after finishing his filet aux champignons, with a bottle of Baune superior, ordered his “demi tasse” with fine champagne, and an Havana cigar which cost him not less than three francs (sixty cents) which he smoked like a connoisseur while he listened to the fine military band playing in the Kiosk. And why not, if you please?

We remained for nearly twenty minutes beside this white wall at the roadside, the animated discussions of the farmers continuing, for the group was constantly augmented by fresh arrivals who meant to travel with us or back to the town from which we had come. It was here that we saw the first stork in Flanders, where indeed they are uncommon. This one had a nest in a large tree nearby. One of the boys shied a small stone at him as he flapped overhead, but, I think, without any idea of hitting him. The peasants assembled here eyed us narrowly. They probed me and my belongings with eyes of corkscrew penetration, but since this country of theirs was a show place to me, I argued that I had no right to object to their making in return a show of me. But such scrutiny is not comfortable, especially if one is seated in a narrow compartment, and the open-mouthed vis a vis gazes at one with steely bluish green unwinking eyes somewhat red rimmed. Especially if such scrutiny is accompanied by free comments upon one’s person, delivered in a voice so pitched as to convey the information to all the other occupants, and mayhap the engine driver ahead.

The other train at length arrived, there was an interchange of occupants and then we proceeded amid heavy clouds of thick black smoke which, for a time, the wind blew with us. Across the tilled fields are narrow paths leading to dykes and roads. There are many green ditches filled with water and in them we could see rather heavy splashes from time to time. These we discovered were made by large green bull frogs really monsters they were, too. Of course we were below the sea level here, but one cannot credit the old story about the boy who plugged the dyke with his thumb, thereby saving the whole country.

The dykes are many feet high and as the foundation is composed of heavy black stones, then layers of great red bricks and tiles, and finally turf and large willow branches interlaced most cunningly like giant basket work, such a story is impossible.

My vis a vis, all the while regarding me unwinkingly, overheard me speak to A , in English.

Then he slowly took the stogie from his mouth and ejaculated, “Ach Engelsch! Do it well met you?”

I replied that it certainly did.

“And met Madame?”

I nodded.

“Alst’ u blieft mynheer sir,” he said. Then he changed his seat and thereafter related to the others that he had conversed with the strangers, who were English, and were traveling for pleasure, being enormously rich. I think thereafter he enjoyed the reputation of being an accomplished linguist. So, pleasantly did we amble along the narrow little steam tramway through luxurious green fields and smiling fertile landscape of the Flemish littoral in our well rewarded search for the quaint and the unusual.

The Gothic Town Hall, a remarkable construction on the Grand’ Place, and erected 1526, has been restored with a great amount of good taste in recent years, and the statues on its façade have been replaced with such skill that one is not conscious of modern work.

The great Hall of the Magistrates on the ground floor, with its magnificent furniture, and the admirable modern mural paintings by the Flemish artists Guffens and Severts (1875) was worth a journey to see. The most noteworthy of these paintings represented the “Departure of Baldwin IX,” Count of Flanders, at the beginning of the Fourth Crusade in 1202, and the “Consultation of the Flemish, before the great Battle of the Spurs” in 1302.

In this chamber is a remarkable Renaissance mantelpiece, which is embellished with the arms of the Allied Towns of Bruges and Ghent, between which are the standard bearers of the doughty Knights of Courtrai, and two statues of the Archduke Albert and his Lady, all surrounding a statue of the Holy Virgin.

On the upper floor is the Council Chamber, in which is another mantelpiece hardly less ornate and interesting, and executed in what may be called the “flamboyant” manner in rich polychrome. It is dated 1527 and was designed by (one of the) Keldermans (?).

It has rows or ranges of statuary said to represent both the Vices and the Virtues. Below are reliefs indicating the terrible punishment inflicted upon those who transgress. Statues of Charles V, the Infanta Isabella, and others are on corbels.

Very large drawn maps of the ancient town and its dependencies cover the walls, and these are dated 1641.