LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROADSIDE SKETCHES

By William Makepeace Thackeray (AKA Titmarsh)

I. FROM RICHMOND IN SURREY TO BRUSSELS IN BELGIUM

II. GHENT--BRUGES:--

Ghent (1840)

Bruges

III. WATERLOO

LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROADSIDE SKETCHES

I. --FROM RICHMOND IN SURREY TO BRUSSELS IN BELGIUM

. . . I quitted the "Rose Cottage Hotel" at Richmond, one of thecomfortablest, quietest, cheapest, neatest little inns in England, anda thousand times preferable, in my opinion, to the "Star and Garter, "whither, if you go alone, a sneering waiter, with his hair curled, frightens you off the premises; and where, if you are bold enough tobrave the sneering waiter, you have to pay ten shillings for a bottleof claret; and whence, if you look out of the window, you gaze on a viewwhich is so rich that it seems to knock you down with its splendor--aview that has its hair curled like the swaggering waiter: I say, Iquitted the "Rose Cottage Hotel" with deep regret, believing that Ishould see nothing so pleasant as its gardens, and its veal cutlets, andits dear little bowling-green, elsewhere. But the time comes when peoplemust go out of town, and so I got on the top of the omnibus, and thecarpet-bag was put inside. 

If I were a great prince and rode outside of coaches (as I should if Iwere a great prince), I would, whether I smoked or not, have a case ofthe best Havanas in my pocket--not for my own smoking, but to give themto the snobs on the coach, who smoke the vilest cheroots. They poisonthe air with the odor of their filthy weeds. A man at all easy in hiscircumstances would spare himself much annoyance by taking the abovesimple precaution. 

A gentleman sitting behind me tapped me on the back and asked for alight. He was a footman, or rather valet. He had no livery, but thethree friends who accompanied him were tall men in pepper-and-saltundress jackets with a duke's coronet on their buttons. 

After tapping me on the back, and when he had finished his cheroot, the gentleman produced another wind-instrument, which he called a"kinopium, " a sort of trumpet, on which he showed a great inclinationto play. He began puffing out of the "kinopium" a most abominableair, which he said was the "Duke's March. " It was played by particularrequest of one of the pepper-and-salt gentry. 

The noise was so abominable that even the coachman objected (althoughmy friend's brother footmen were ravished with it), and said that itwas not allowed to play toons on HIS 'bus. "Very well, " said the valet, "WE'RE ONLY OF THE DUKE OF B----'S ESTABLISHMENT, THAT'S ALL. " Thecoachman could not resist that appeal to his fashionable feelings. Thevalet was allowed to play his infernal kinopium, and the poor fellow(the coachman), who had lived in some private families, was quiteanxious to conciliate the footmen "of the Duke of B. 's establishment, that's all, " and told several stories of his having been groom inCaptain Hoskins's family, NEPHEW OF GOVERNOR HOSKINS; which stories thefootmen received with great contempt. 

The footmen were like the rest of the fashionable world in thisrespect. I felt for my part that I respected them. They were in dailycommunication with a duke! They were not the rose, but they had livedbeside it. There is an odor in the English aristocracy which intoxicatesplebeians. I am sure that any commoner in England, though he would dierather than confess it, would have a respect for those great big hulkingDuke's footmen. 

The day before, her Grace the Duchess had passed us alone in achariot-and-four with two outriders. What better mark of innatesuperiority could man want? Here was a slim lady who required four--sixhorses to herself, and four servants (kinopium was, no doubt, one of thenumber) to guard her. 

We were sixteen inside and out, and had consequently an eighth of ahorse apiece. 

A duchess = 6, a commoner = 1/8; that is to say, 1 duchess = 48 commoners. 

If I were a duchess of the present day, I would say to the duke my noblehusband, "My dearest grace, I think, when I travel alone in my chariotfrom Hammersmith to London, I will not care for the outriders. In thesedays, when there is so much poverty and so much disaffection in thecountry, we should not eclabousser the canaille with the sight of ourpreposterous prosperity. "

But this is very likely only plebeian envy, and I dare say, if I werea lovely duchess of the realm, I would ride in a coach-and-six, with acoronet on the top of my bonnet and a robe of velvet and ermine even inthe dog-days. 

Alas! these are the dog-days. Many dogs are abroad--snarling dogs, biting dogs, envious dogs, mad dogs; beware of exciting the fury ofsuch with your flaming red velvet and dazzling ermine. It makes raggedLazarus doubly hungry to see Dives feasting in cloth-of-gold; and soif I were a beauteous duchess . . . Silence, vain man! Can the Queenherself make you a duchess? Be content, then, nor gibe at thy betters of"the Duke of B----'s establishment-- that's all. "

ON BOARD THE "ANTWERPEN, " OFF EVERYWHERE. 

We have bidden adieu to Billingsgate, we have passed the Thames Tunnel;it is one o'clock, and of course people are thinking of being hungry. What a merry place a steamer is on a calm sunny summer forenoon, andwhat an appetite every one seems to have! We are, I assure you, no lessthan 170 noblemen and gentlemen together, pacing up and down under theawning, or lolling on the sofas in the cabin, and hardly have we passedGreenwich when the feeding begins. The company was at the brandy andsoda-water in an instant (there is a sort of legend that the beverage isa preservative against sea-sickness), and I admired the penetration ofgentlemen who partook of the drink. In the first place, the steward WILLput so much brandy into the tumbler that it is fit to choke you; and, secondly, the soda-water, being kept as near as possible to the boilerof the engine, is of a fine wholesome heat when presented to the hot andthirsty traveller. Thus he is prevented from catching any sudden coldwhich might be dangerous to him. 

The forepart of the vessel is crowded to the full as much as thegenteeler quarter. There are four carriages, each with piles ofimperials and aristocratic gimcracks of travel, under the wheels ofwhich those personages have to clamber who have a mind to look at thebowsprit, and perhaps to smoke a cigar at ease. The carriages overcome, you find yourself confronted by a huge penful of Durham oxen, lyingon hay and surrounded by a barricade of oars. Fifteen of these hornedmonsters maintain an incessant mooing and bellowing. Beyond the cowscome a heap of cotton-bags, beyond the cotton-bags more carriages, morepyramids of travelling trunks, and valets and couriers bustling andswearing round about them. And already, and in various corners andniches, lying on coils of rope, black tar-cloths, ragged cloaks, or hay, you see a score of those dubious fore-cabin passengers, who are nevershaved, who always look unhappy, and appear getting ready to be sick. 

At one, dinner begins in the after-cabin--boiled salmon, boiled beef, boiled mutton, boiled cabbage, boiled potatoes, and parboiled wine forany gentlemen who like it, and two roast-ducks between seventy. Afterthis, knobs of cheese are handed round on a plate, and there is a talkof a tart somewhere at some end of the table. All this I saw peepingthrough a sort of meat-safe which ventilates the top of the cabin, andvery happy and hot did the people seem below. 

"How the deuce CAN people dine at such an hour?" say several genteelfellows who are watching the manoeuvres. "I can't touch a morsel beforeseven. "

But somehow at half-past three o'clock we had dropped a long way downthe river. The air was delightfully fresh, the sky of a faultlesscobalt, the river shining and flashing like quicksilver, and at thisperiod steward runs against me bearing two great smoking dishes coveredby two great glistening hemispheres of tin. "Fellow, " says I, "what'sthat?"

He lifted up the cover: it was ducks and green pease, by jingo!

"What! haven't they done YET, the greedy creatures?" I asked. "Have thepeople been feeding for three hours?"

"Law bless you, sir, it's the second dinner. Make haste, or you won'tget a place. " At which words a genteel party, with whom I had beenconversing, instantly tumbled down the hatchway, and I find myself oneof the second relay of seventy who are attacking the boiled salmon, boiled beef, boiled cabbage, &c. As for the ducks, I certainly hadsome pease, very fine yellow stiff pease, that ought to have beensplit before they were boiled; but, with regard to the ducks, I saw theanimals gobbled up before my eyes by an old widow lady and her partyjust as I was shrieking to the steward to bring a knife and fork tocarve them. The fellow! (I mean the widow lady's whiskered companion)--Isaw him eat pease with the very knife with which he had dissected theduck!

After dinner (as I need not tell the keen observer of human nature whoperuses this) the human mind, if the body be in a decent state, expandsinto gayety and benevolence, and the intellect longs to measure itselfin friendly converse with the divers intelligences around it. We ascendupon deck, and after eying each other for a brief space and with afriendly modest hesitation, we begin anon to converse about the weatherand other profound and delightful themes of English discourse. Weconfide to each other our respective opinions of the ladies round aboutus. Look at that charming creature in a pink bonnet and a dress of thepattern of a Kilmarnock snuff-box: a stalwart Irish gentleman in a greencoat and bushy red whiskers is whispering something very agreeable intoher ear, as is the wont of gentlemen of his nation; for her dark eyeskindle, her red lips open and give an opportunity to a dozen beautifulpearly teeth to display themselves, and glance brightly in the sun;while round the teeth and the lips a number of lovely dimples make theirappearance, and her whole countenance assumes a look of perfect healthand happiness. See her companion in shot silk and a dove-coloredparasol; in what a graceful Watteau-like attitude she reclines. The tallcourier who has been bouncing about the deck in attendance upon theseladies (it is his first day of service, and he is eager to make afavorable impression on them and the lady's-maids too) has just broughtthem from the carriage a small paper of sweet cakes (nothing is prettierthan to see a pretty woman eating sweet biscuits) and a bottle thatevidently contains Malmsey madeira. How daintily they sip it; how happythey seem; how that lucky rogue of an Irishman prattles away! Yonderis a noble group indeed: an English gentleman and his family. Children, mother, grandmother, grown-up daughters, father, and domestics, twenty-two in all. They have a table to themselves on the deck, and theconsumption of eatables among them is really endless. The nurses havebeen bustling to and fro, and bringing, first, slices of cake; thendinner; then tea with huge family jugs of milk; and the little peoplehave been playing hide-and-seek round the deck, coquetting with theother children, and making friends of every soul on board. I love tosee the kind eyes of women fondly watching them as they gambol about; afemale face, be it ever so plain, when occupied in regarding children, becomes celestial almost, and a man can hardly fail to be good and happywhile he is looking on at such sights. "Ah, sir!" says a great big man, whom you would not accuse of sentiment, "I have a couple of those littlethings at home;" and he stops and heaves a great big sigh and swallowsdown a half-tumbler of cold something and water. We know what the honestfellow means well enough. He is saying to himself, "God bless my girlsand their mother!" but, being a Briton, is too manly to speak out in amore intelligible way. Perhaps it is as well for him to be quiet, andnot chatter and gesticulate like those Frenchmen a few yards from him, who are chirping over a bottle of champagne. 

There is, as you may fancy, a number of such groups on the deck, anda pleasant occupation it is for a lonely man to watch them and buildtheories upon them, and examine those two personages seated cheek byjowl. One is an English youth, travelling for the first time, who hasbeen hard at his Guidebook during the whole journey. He has a "Manuel duVoyageur" in his pocket: a very pretty, amusing little oblong work it istoo, and might be very useful, if the foreign people in three languages, among whom you travel, would but give the answers set down in the book, or understand the questions you put to them out of it. The other honestgentleman in the fur cap, what can his occupation be? We know him atonce for what he is. "Sir, " says he, in a fine German accent, "I am abrofessor of languages, and will gif you lessons in Danish, Swedish, English, Bortuguese, Spanish and Bersian. " Thus occupied in meditations, the rapid hours and the rapid steamer pass quickly on. The sun issinking, and, as he drops, the ingenious luminary sets the Thames onfire: several worthy gentlemen, watch in hand, are eagerly examining thephenomena attending his disappearance, --rich clouds of purple and gold, that form the curtains of his bed, --little barks that pass black acrosshis disc, his disc every instant dropping nearer and nearer into thewater. "There he goes!" says one sagacious observer. "No, he doesn't, "cries another. Now he is gone, and the steward is already threading thedeck, asking the passengers, right and left, if they will take alittle supper. What a grand object is a sunset, and what a wonder is anappetite at sea! Lo! the horned moon shines pale over Margate, and thered beacon is gleaming from distant Ramsgate pier. 

*****

A great rush is speedily made for the mattresses that lie in the boat atthe ship's side; and as the night is delightfully calm, many fair ladiesand worthy men determine to couch on deck for the night. The proceedingsof the former, especially if they be young and pretty, the philosopherwatches with indescribable emotion and interest. What a number of prettycoquetries do the ladies perform, and into what pretty attitudes do theytake care to fall! All the little children have been gathered up by thenursery-maids, and are taken down to roost below. Balmy sleep sealsthe eyes of many tired wayfarers, as you see in the case of the Russiannobleman asleep among the portmanteaus; and Titmarsh, who has beenwalking the deck for some time with a great mattress on his shoulders, knowing full well that were he to relinquish it for an instant, someother person would seize on it, now stretches his bed upon the deck, wraps his cloak about his knees, draws his white cotton nightcap tightover his head and ears; and, as the smoke of his cigar rises calmlyupwards to the deep sky and the cheerful twinkling stars, he feelshimself exquisitely happy, and thinks of thee, my Juliana!

*****

Why people, because they are in a steamboat, should get up so deucedlyearly I cannot understand. Gentlemen have been walking over my legs eversince three o'clock this morning, and, no doubt, have been indulgingin personalities (which I hate) regarding my appearance and manner ofsleeping, lying, snoring. Let the wags laugh on; but a far pleasanteroccupation is to sleep until breakfast-time, or near it. 

The tea, and ham and eggs, which, with a beefsteak or two, and threeor four rounds of toast, form the component parts of the above-namedelegant meal, are taken in the River Scheldt. Little neat, plump-lookingchurches and villages are rising here and there among tufts of trees andpastures that are wonderfully green. To the right, as the "Guide-book"says, is Walcheren; and on the left Cadsand, memorable for the Englishexpedition of 1809, when Lord Chatham, Sir Walter Manny, and Henry Earlof Derby, at the head of the English, gained a great victory over theFlemish mercenaries in the pay of Philippe of Valois. The cloth-yardshafts of the English archers did great execution. Flushing was taken, and Lord Chatham returned to England, where he distinguished himselfgreatly in the debates on the American war, which he called thebrightest jewel of the British crown. You see, my love, that, though anartist by profession, my education has by no means been neglected; andwhat, indeed, would be the pleasure of travel, unless these charminghistorical recollections were brought to bear upon it?

ANTWERP. 

As many hundreds of thousands of English visit this city (I have metat least a hundred of them in this half-hour walking the streets, "Guide-book" in hand), and as the ubiquitous Murray has already depictedthe place, there is no need to enter into a long description of it, its neatness, its beauty, and its stiff antique splendor. The tallpale houses have many of them crimped gables, that look like QueenElizabeth's ruffs. There are as many people in the streets as in Londonat three o'clock in the morning; the market-women wear bonnets ofa flower-pot shape, and have shining brazen milk-pots, which aredelightful to the eyes of a painter. Along the quays of the lazy Scheldtare innumerable good-natured groups of beer-drinkers (small-beer is themost good-natured drink in the world); along the barriers outside ofthe town, and by the glistening canals, are more beer-shops and morebeer-drinkers. The city is defended by the queerest fat military. Thechief traffic is between the hotels and the railroad. The hotels givewonderful good dinners, and especially at the "Grand Laboureur" may bementioned a peculiar tart, which is the best of all tarts that ever aman ate since he was ten years old. A moonlight walk is delightful. Atten o'clock the whole city is quiet; and so little changed does it seemto be, that you may walk back three hundred years into time, and fancyyourself a majestical Spaniard, or an oppressed and patriotic Dutchmanat your leisure. You enter the inn, and the old Quentin Durwardcourt-yard, on which the old towers look down. There is a sound ofsinging--singing at midnight. Is it Don Sombrero, who is singing anAndalusian seguidilla under the window of the Flemish burgomaster'sdaughter? Ah, no! it is a fat Englishman in a zephyr coat: he isdrinking cold gin-and-water in the moonlight, and warbling softly--

 "Nix my dolly, pals, fake away, N-ix my dolly, pals, fake a--a--way. "*

 * In 1844. 

I wish the good people would knock off the top part of Antwerp Cathedralspire. Nothing can be more gracious and elegant than the lines of thefirst two compartments; but near the top there bulges out a littleround, ugly, vulgar Dutch monstrosity (for which the architects have, nodoubt, a name) which offends the eye cruelly. Take the Apollo, and setupon him a bob-wig and a little cocked hat; imagine "God Save the King"ending with a jig; fancy a polonaise, or procession of slim, stately, elegant court beauties, headed by a buffoon dancing a hornpipe. MarshalGerard should have discharged a bombshell at that abomination, and havegiven the noble steeple a chance to be finished in the grand style ofthe early fifteenth century, in which it was begun. 

This style of criticism is base and mean, and quite contrary to theorders of the immortal Goethe, who was only for allowing the eye torecognize the beauties of a great work, but would have its defectspassed over. It is an unhappy, luckless organization which will beperpetually fault-finding, and in the midst of a grand concert of musicwill persist only in hearing that unfortunate fiddle out of tune. 

Within--except where the rococo architects have introduced theirornaments (here is the fiddle out of tune again)--the cathedral isnoble. A rich, tender sunshine is streaming in through the windows, and gilding the stately edifice with the purest light. The admirablestained-glass windows are not too brilliant in their colors. Theorgan is playing a rich, solemn music; some two hundred of people arelistening to the service; and there is scarce one of the women kneelingon her chair, enveloped in her full majestic black drapery, that isnot a fine study for a painter. These large black mantles of heavy silkbrought over the heads of the women, and covering their persons, fallinto such fine folds of drapery, that they cannot help being picturesqueand noble. See, kneeling by the side of two of those fine devout-lookingfigures, is a lady in a little twiddling Parisian hat and feather, ina little lace mantelet, in a tight gown and a bustle. She is almost asmonstrous as yonder figure of the Virgin, in a hoop, and with a hugecrown and a ball and a sceptre; and a bambino dressed in a little hoop, and in a little crown, round which are clustered flowers and pots oforange-trees, and before which many of the faithful are at prayer. Gentle clouds of incense come wafting through the vast edifice; and inthe lulls of the music you hear the faint chant of the priest, and thesilver tinkle of the bell. 

Six Englishmen, with the commissionaires, and the "Murray's Guide-books"in their hands, are looking at the "Descent from the Cross. " Of thispicture the "Guide-book" gives you orders how to judge. If it is the endof religious painting to express the religious sentiment, a hundred ofinferior pictures must rank before Rubens. Who was ever piously affectedby any picture of the master? He can depict a livid thief writhing uponthe cross, sometimes a blond Magdalen weeping below it; but it is aMagdalen a very short time indeed after her repentance: her yellowbrocades and flaring satins are still those which she wore when she wasof the world; her body has not yet lost the marks of the feasting andvoluptuousness in which she used to indulge, according to the legend. Not one of the Rubens's pictures among all the scores that decoratechapels and churches here, has the least tendency to purify, to touchthe affections, or to awaken the feelings of religious respect andwonder. The "Descent from the Cross" is vast, gloomy, and awful; but theawe inspired by it is, as I take it, altogether material. He might havepainted a picture of any criminal broken on the wheel, and the sensationinspired by it would have been precisely similar. Nor in a religiouspicture do you want the savoir-faire of the master to be alwaysprotruding itself; it detracts from the feeling of reverence, just asthe thumping of cushion and the spouting of tawdry oratory does froma sermon: meek religion disappears, shouldered out of the desk bythe pompous, stalwart, big-chested, fresh-colored, bushy-whiskeredpulpiteer. Rubens's piety has always struck us as of this sort. If hetakes a pious subject, it is to show you in what a fine way he, PeterPaul Rubens, can treat it. He never seems to doubt but that he is doingit a great honor. His "Descent from the Cross, " and its accompanyingwings and cover, are a set of puns upon the word Christopher, of whichthe taste is more odious than that of the hooped-petticoated Virginyonder, with her artificial flowers, and her rings and brooches. Thepeople who made an offering of that hooped petticoat did their best, atany rate; they knew no better. There is humility in that simple, quaintpresent; trustfulness and kind intention. Looking about at other altars, you see (much to the horror of pious Protestants) all sorts of queerlittle emblems hanging up under little pyramids of penny candles thatare sputtering and flaring there. Here you have a silver arm, ora little gold toe, or a wax leg, or a gilt eye, signifying andcommemorating cures that have been performed by the supposedintercession of the saint over whose chapel they hang. Well, althoughthey are abominable superstitions, yet these queer little offerings seemto me to be a great deal more pious than Rubens's big pictures; just asis the widow with her poor little mite compared to the swelling Phariseewho flings his purse of gold into the plate. 

A couple of days of Rubens and his church pictures makes one thoroughlyand entirely sick of him. His very genius and splendor pails upon one, even taking the pictures as worldly pictures. One grows weary of beingperpetually feasted with this rich, coarse, steaming food. Consideringthem as church pictures, I don't want to go to church to hear, howeversplendid, an organ play the "British Grenadiers. "

The Antwerpians have set up a clumsy bronze statue of their divinityin a square of the town; and those who have not enough of Rubens in thechurches may study him, and indeed to much greater advantage, in a good, well-lighted museum. Here, there is one picture, a dying saint takingthe communion, a large piece ten or eleven feet high, and painted in anincredibly short space of time, which is extremely curious indeedfor the painter's study. The picture is scarcely more than an immensemagnificent sketch; but it tells the secret of the artist's manner, which, in the midst of its dash and splendor, is curiously methodical. Where the shadows are warm the lights are cold, and vice versa; and thepicture has been so rapidly painted, that the tints lie raw by the sideof one another, the artist not having taken the trouble to blend them. 

There are two exquisite Vandykes (whatever Sir Joshua may say of them), and in which the very management of the gray tones which the Presidentabuses forms the principal excellence and charm. Why, after all, are wenot to have our opinion? Sir Joshua is not the Pope. The color of oneof those Vandykes is as fine as FINE Paul Veronese, and the sentimentbeautifully tender and graceful. 

I saw, too, an exhibition of the modern Belgian artists (1843), theremembrance of whose pictures after a month's absence has almostentirely vanished. Wappers's hand, as I thought, seemed to have grownold and feeble, Verboeckhoven's cattle-pieces are almost as good asPaul Potter's, and Keyser has dwindled down into namby-pamby prettiness, pitiful to see in the gallant young painter who astonished the Louvreartists ten years ago by a hand almost as dashing and ready as that ofRubens himself. There were besides many caricatures of the new Germanschool, which are in themselves caricatures of the masters beforeRaphael. 

An instance of honesty may be mentioned here with applause. Thewriter lost a pocket-book containing a passport and a couple of modestten-pound notes. The person who found the portfolio ingeniously put itinto the box of the post-office, and it was faithfully restored to theowner; but somehow the two ten-pound notes were absent. It was, however, a great comfort to get the passport, and the pocket-book, which must beworth about ninepence. 

BRUSSELS. 

It was night when we arrived by the railroad from Antwerp at Brussels;the route is very pretty and interesting, and the flat countriesthrough which the road passes in the highest state of peaceful, smilingcultivation. The fields by the roadside are enclosed by hedges as inEngland, the harvest was in part down, and an English country gentlemanwho was of our party pronounced the crops to be as fine as any he hadever seen. Of this matter a Cockney cannot judge accurately, but any mancan see with what extraordinary neatness and care all these little plotsof ground are tilled, and admire the richness and brilliancy of thevegetation. Outside of the moat of Antwerp, and at every village bywhich we passed, it was pleasant to see the happy congregations ofwell-clad people that basked in the evening sunshine, and soberly smokedtheir pipes and drank their Flemish beer. Men who love this drink must, as I fancy, have something essentially peaceful in their composition, and must be more easily satisfied than folks on our side of the water. The excitement of Flemish beer is, indeed, not great. I have tried boththe white beer and the brown; they are both of the kind which schoolboysdenominate "swipes, " very sour and thin to the taste, but served, to besure, in quaint Flemish jugs that do not seem to have changed theirform since the days of Rubens, and must please the lovers of antiquarianknick-knacks. Numbers of comfortable-looking women and children satbeside the head of the family upon the tavern-benches, and it wasamusing to see one little fellow of eight years old smoking, with muchgravity, his father's cigar. How the worship of the sacred plant oftobacco has spread through all Europe! I am sure that the persons whocry out against the use of it are guilty of superstition and unreason, and that it would be a proper and easy task for scientific personsto write an encomium upon the weed. In solitude it is the pleasantestcompanion possible, and in company never de trop. To a student itsuggests all sorts of agreeable thoughts, it refreshes the brain whenweary, and every sedentary cigar-smoker will tell you how much good hehas had from it, and how he has been able to return to his labor, aftera quarter of an hour's mild interval of the delightful leaf of Havana. Drinking has gone from among us since smoking came in. It is a wickederror to say that smokers are drunkards; drink they do, but of gentlediluents mostly, for fierce stimulants of wine or strong liquors areabhorrent to the real lover of the Indian weed. Ah! my Juliana, joinnot in the vulgar cry that is raised against us. Cigars and cool drinksbeget quiet conversations, good-humor, meditation; not hot blood such asmounts into the head of drinkers of apoplectic port or dangerous claret. Are we not more moral and reasonable than our forefathers? Indeed Ithink so somewhat; and many improvements of social life and conversemust date with the introduction of the pipe. 

We were a dozen tobacco-consumers in the wagon of the train that broughtus from Antwerp; nor did the women of the party (sensible women!) make asingle objection to the fumigation. But enough of this; only let me add, in conclusion, that an excellent Israelitish gentleman, Mr. Hartogof Antwerp, supplies cigars for a penny apiece, such as are not to beprocured in London for four times the sum. 

Through smiling corn-fields, then, and by little woods from which rosehere and there the quaint peaked towers of some old-fashioned chateaux, our train went smoking along at thirty miles an hour. We caught aglimpse of Mechlin steeple, at first dark against the sunset, andafterwards bright as we came to the other side of it, and admired longglistening canals or moats that surrounded the queer old town, and werelighted up in that wonderful way which the sun only understands, andnot even Mr. Turner, with all his vermilion and gamboge, can put downon canvas. The verdure was everywhere astonishing, and we fancied we sawmany golden Cuyps as we passed by these quiet pastures. 

Steam-engines and their accompaniments, blazing forges, gauntmanufactories, with numberless windows and long black chimneys, ofcourse take away from the romance of the place but, as we whirled intoBrussels, even these engines had a fine appearance. Three or four of thesnorting, galloping monsters had just finished their journey, and therewas a quantity of flaming ashes lying under the brazen bellies of eachthat looked properly lurid and demoniacal. The men at the station cameout with flaming torches--awful-looking fellows indeed! Presently thedifferent baggage was handed out, and in the very worst vehicle I everentered, and at the very slowest pace, we were borne to the "Hotel deSuede, " from which house of entertainment this letter is written. 

We strolled into the town, but, though the night was excessively fineand it was not yet eleven o'clock, the streets of the little capitalwere deserted, and the handsome blazing cafes round about the theatrescontained no inmates. Ah, what a pretty sight is the Parisian Boulevardon a night like this! how many pleasant hours has one passed in watchingthe lights, and the hum, and the stir, and the laughter of those happy, idle people! There was none of this gayety here; nor was there a personto be found, except a skulking commissioner or two (whose real namein French is that of a fish that is eaten with fennel-sauce), and whooffered to conduct us to certain curiosities in the town. What must weEnglish not have done, that in every town in Europe we are to be fixedupon by scoundrels of this sort; and what a pretty reflection it is onour country that such rascals find the means of living on us!

Early the next morning we walked through a number of streets in theplace, and saw certain sights. The Park is very pretty, and all thebuildings round about it have an air of neatness--almost of stateliness. The houses are tall, the streets spacious, and the roads extremelyclean. In the Park is a little theatre, a cafe somewhat ruinous, alittle palace for the king of this little kingdom, some smart publicbuildings (with S. P. Q. B. Emblazoned on them, at which pompousinscription one cannot help laughing), and other rows of houses somewhatresembling a little Rue de Rivoli. Whether from my own natural greatnessand magnanimity, or from that handsome share of national conceit thatevery Englishman possesses, my impressions of this city are certainlyanything but respectful. It has an absurd kind of Lilliput look with it. There are soldiers, just as in Paris, better dressed, and doing a vastdeal of drumming and bustle; and yet, somehow, far from being frightenedat them, I feel inclined to laugh in their faces. There are littleMinisters, who work at their little bureaux; and to read the journals, how fierce they are! A great thundering Times could hardly talk morebig. One reads about the rascally Ministers, the miserable Opposition, the designs of tyrants, the eyes of Europe, &c. , just as one wouldin real journals. The Moniteur of Ghent belabors the Independent ofBrussels; the Independent falls foul of the Lynx; and really it isdifficult not to suppose sometimes that these worthy people are inearnest. And yet how happy were they sua si bona norint! Think what acomfort it would be to belong to a little state like this; not to abusetheir privilege, but philosophically to use it. If I were a Belgian, I would not care one single fig about politics. I would not readthundering leading-articles. I would not have an opinion. What's the useof an opinion here? Happy fellows! do not the French, the English, andthe Prussians, spare them the trouble of thinking, and make all theiropinions for them? Think of living in a country free, easy, respectable, wealthy, and with the nuisance of talking politics removed from out ofit. All this might the Belgians have, and a part do they enjoy, but notthe best part; no, these people will be brawling and by the ears, andparties run as high here as at Stoke Pogis or little Pedlington. 

These sentiments were elicited by the reading of a paper at the cafe inthe Park, where we sat under the trees for a while and sipped our coollemonade. Numbers of statues decorate the place, the very worst Iever saw. These Cupids must have been erected in the time of the Dutchdynasty, as I judge from the immense posterior developments. Indeed thearts of the country are very low. The statues here, and the lions beforethe Prince of Orange's palace, would disgrace almost the figurehead of aship. 

Of course we paid our visit to this little lion of Brussels (thePrince's palace, I mean). The architecture of the building is admirablysimple and firm; and you remark about it, and all other works here, ahigh finish in doors, wood-works, paintings, &c. , that one does not seein France, where the buildings are often rather sketched than completed, and the artist seems to neglect the limbs, as it were, and extremitiesof his figures. 

The finish of this little place is exquisite. We went through some dozenof state-rooms, paddling along over the slippery floors of inlaid woodsin great slippers, without which we must have come to the ground. Howdid his Royal Highness the Prince of Orange manage when he lived here, and her Imperial Highness the Princess, and their excellencies thechamberlains and the footmen? They must have been on their tails manytimes a day, that's certain, and must have cut queer figures. 

The ball-room is beautiful--all marble, and yet with a comfortable, cheerful look; the other apartments are not less agreeable, and thepeople looked with intense satisfaction at some great lapis-lazulitables, which the guide informed us were worth four millions, more orless; adding with a very knowing look, that they were un peu plus cherque l'or. This speech has a tremendous effect on visitors, and when wemet some of our steamboat companions in the Park or elsewhere--in sosmall a place as this one falls in with them a dozen times a day--"Haveyou seen the tables?" was the general question. Prodigious tables arethey, indeed! Fancy a table, my dear--a table four feet wide--a tablewith legs. Ye heavens! the mind can hardly picture to itself anything sobeautiful and so tremendous!

There are some good pictures in the palace, too, but not soextraordinarily good as the guide-books and the guide would have usto think. The latter, like most men of his class, is an ignoramus, who showed us an Andrea del Sarto (copy or original), and called it aCorreggio, and made other blunders of a like nature. As is the case inEngland, you are hurried through the rooms without being allowed timeto look at the pictures, and, consequently, to pronounce a satisfactoryjudgment on them. 

In the Museum more time was granted me, and I spent some hours withpleasure there. It is an absurd little gallery, absurdly imitating theLouvre, with just such compartments and pillars as you see in the nobleParis gallery; only here the pillars and capitals are stucco andwhite in place of marble and gold, and plaster-of-paris busts of greatBelgians are placed between the pillars. An artist of the countryhas made a picture containing them, and you will be ashamed of yourignorance when you hear many of their names. Old Tilly of Magdeburgfigures in one corner; Rubens, the endless Rubens, stands in themidst. What a noble countenance it is, and what a manly, swaggeringconsciousness of power!

The picture to see here is a portrait, by the great Peter Paul, of oneof the governesses of the Netherlands. It is just the finest portraitthat ever was seen. Only a half-length, but such a majesty, such aforce, such a splendor, such a simplicity about it! The woman is in astiff black dress, with a ruff and a few pearls; a yellow curtain isbehind her--the simplest arrangement that can be conceived; but thisgreat man knew how to rise to his occasion; and no better proof canbe shown of what a fine gentleman he was than this his homage to thevice-Queen. A common bungler would have painted her in her best clothes, with crown and sceptre, just as our Queen has been painted by--butcomparisons are odious. Here stands this majestic woman in her every-dayworking-dress of black satin, LOOKING YOUR HAT OFF, as it were. Anotherportrait of the same personage hangs elsewhere in the gallery, and it iscurious to observe the difference between the two, and see how a man ofgenius paints a portrait, and how a common limner executes it. 

Many more pictures are there here by Rubens, or rather from Rubens'smanufactory, --odious and vulgar most of them are; fat Magdalens, coarseSaints, vulgar Virgins, with the scene-painter's tricks far too evidentupon the canvas. By the side of one of the most astonishing color-piecesin the world, the "Worshipping of the Magi, " is a famous picture of PaulVeronese that cannot be too much admired. As Rubens sought in the firstpicture to dazzle and astonish by gorgeous variety, Paul in his seemsto wish to get his effect by simplicity, and has produced the most nobleharmony that can be conceived. Many more works are there that meritnotice, --a singularly clever, brilliant, and odious Jordaens, forexample; some curious costume-pieces; one or two works by the BelgianRaphael, who was a very Belgian Raphael, indeed; and a long galleryof pictures of the very oldest school, that, doubtless, afford muchpleasure to the amateurs of ancient art. I confess that I am inclinedto believe in very little that existed before the time of Raphael. There is, for instance, the Prince of Orange's picture by Perugino, verypretty indeed, up to a certain point, but all the heads are repeated, all the drawing is bad and affected; and this very badness andaffectation, is what the so-called Catholic school is always anxious toimitate. Nothing can be more juvenile or paltry than the works of thenative Belgians here exhibited. Tin crowns are suspended over manyof them, showing that the pictures are prize compositions: and prettythings, indeed, they are! Have you ever read an Oxford prize-poem! Well, these pictures are worse even than the Oxford poems--an awful assertionto make. 

In the matter of eating, dear sir, which is the next subject of the finearts, a subject that, after many hours' walking, attracts a gentlemanvery much, let me attempt to recall the transactions of this very day atthe table-d'-hote. 1, green pea-soup; 2, boiled salmon; 3, mussels; 4, crimped skate; 5, roast-meat; 6, patties; 7, melons; 8, carp, stewedwith mushrooms and onions; 9, roast-turkey; 10, cauliflower and butter;11, fillets of venison piques, with asafoetida sauce; 12, stewedcalf's-ear; 13, roast-veal; 14, roast-lamb; 15, stewed cherries;16, rice-pudding; 17, Gruyere cheese, and about twenty-four cakes ofdifferent kinds. Except 5, 13, and 14, I give you my word I ate of allwritten down here, with three rolls of bread and a score of potatoes. What is the meaning of it? How is the stomach of man to be brought todesire and to receive all this quantity? Do not gastronomists complainof heaviness in London after eating a couple of mutton-chops? Do notrespectable gentlemen fall asleep in their arm-chairs? Are they fit formental labor? Far from it. But look at the difference here: after dinnerhere one is as light as a gossamer. One walks with pleasure, reads withpleasure, writes with pleasure--nay, there is the supper-bell going atten o'clock, and plenty of eaters, too. Let lord mayors and aldermenlook to it, this fact of the extraordinary increase of appetite inBelgium, and, instead of steaming to Blackwall, come a little further toAntwerp. 

Of ancient architectures in the place, there is a fine old Port deHalle, which has a tall, gloomy, bastille look; a most magnificenttown-hall, that has been sketched a thousand of times, and oppositeit, a building that I think would be the very model for a Conservativeclub-house in London. Oh! how charming it would be to be a greatpainter, and give the character of the building, and the numberlessgroups round about it. The booths lighted up by the sun, themarket-women in their gowns of brilliant hue, each group having acharacter and telling its little story, the troops of men lolling in allsorts of admirable attitudes of ease round the great lamp. Half a dozenlight-blue dragoons are lounging about, and peeping over the artist asthe drawing is made, and the sky is more bright and blue than one seesit in a hundred years in London. 

The priests of the country are a remarkably well-fed and respectablerace, without that scowling, hang-dog look which one has remarkedamong reverend gentlemen in the neighboring country of France. Theirreverences wear buckles to their shoes, light-blue neck-cloths, andhuge three-cornered hats in good condition. To-day, strolling by thecathedral, I heard the tinkling of a bell in the street, and beheldcertain persons, male and female, suddenly plump down on their kneesbefore a little procession that was passing. Two men in black held atawdry red canopy, a priest walked beneath it holding the sacramentcovered with a cloth, and before him marched a couple of littlealtar-boys in short white surplices, such as you see in Rubens, andholding lacquered lamps. A small train of street-boys followed theprocession, cap in hand, and the clergyman finally entered a hospitalfor old women, near the church, the canopy and the lamp-bearersremaining without. 

It was a touching scene, and as I stayed to watch it, I could not butthink of the poor old soul who was dying within, listening to the lastwords of prayer, led by the hand of the priest to the brink of the blackfathomless grave. How bright the sun was shining without all the time, and how happy and careless every thing around us looked!

The Duke d'Arenberg has a picture-gallery worthy of his princely house. It does not contain great pieces, but tit-bits of pictures, such as suitan aristocratic epicure. For such persons a great huge canvas is toomuch, it is like sitting down alone to a roasted ox; and they do wisely, I think, to patronize small, high-flavored, delicate morceaux, such asthe Duke has here. 

Among them may be mentioned, with special praise, a magnificent smallRembrandt, a Paul Potter of exceeding minuteness and beauty, an Ostade, which reminds one of Wilkie's early performances, and a Dusart quiteas good as Ostade. There is a Berghem, much more unaffected than thatartist's works generally are; and, what is more, precious in the eyes ofmany ladies as an object of art, there is, in one of the grand saloons, some needlework done by the Duke's own grandmother, which is looked atwith awe by those admitted to see the palace. 

The chief curiosity, if not the chief ornament of a very elegantlibrary, filled with vases and bronzes, is a marble head, supposed tobe the original head of the Laocoon. It is, unquestionably a finer headthan that which at present figures upon the shoulders of the famousstatue. The expression of woe is more manly and intense; in the group aswe know it, the head of the principal figure has always seemed to me tobe a grimace of grief, as are the two accompanying young gentlemenwith their pretty attitudes, and their little silly, open-moutheddespondency. It has always had upon me the effect of a trick, thatstatue, and not of a piece of true art. It would look well in the vistaof a garden; it is not august enough for a temple, with all its jerksand twirls, and polite convulsions. But who knows what susceptibilitiessuch a confession may offend? Let us say no more about the Laocoon, norits head, nor its tail. The Duke was offered its weight in gold, theysay, for this head, and refused. It would be a shame to speak ill ofsuch a treasure, but I have my opinion of the man who made the offer. 

In the matter of sculpture almost all the Brussels churches aredecorated with the most laborious wooden pulpits, which may be worththeir weight in gold, too, for what I know, including his reverencepreaching inside. At St. Gudule the preacher mounts into no less a placethan the garden of Eden, being supported by Adam and Eve, by Sin andDeath, and numberless other animals; he walks up to his desk by arustic railing of flowers, fruits, and vegetables, with wooden peacocks, paroquets, monkeys biting apples, and many more of the birds andbeasts of the field. In another church the clergyman speaks from out ahermitage; in a third from a carved palm-tree, which supports a set ofoak clouds that form the canopy of the pulpit, and are, indeed, not muchheavier in appearance than so many huge sponges. A priest, however tallor stout, must be lost in the midst of all these queer gimcracks; inorder to be consistent, they ought to dress him up, too, in some oddfantastical suit. I can fancy the Cure of Meudon preaching out of such aplace, or the Rev. Sydney Smith, or that famous clergyman of the time ofthe League, who brought all Paris to laugh and listen to him. 

But let us not be too supercilious and ready to sneer. It is only badtaste. It may have been very true devotion which erected these strangeedifices. 

II. --GHENT--BRUGES. 

GHENT. (1840. )

The Beguine College or Village is one of the most extraordinary sightsthat all Europe can show. On the confines of the town of Ghent you comeupon an old-fashioned brick gate, that seems as if it were one of thecity barriers; but, on passing it, one of the prettiest sights possiblemeets the eye: At the porter's lodge you see an old lady, in black anda white hood, occupied over her book; before you is a red church with atall roof and fantastical Dutch pinnacles, and all around it rows uponrows of small houses, the queerest, neatest, nicest that ever were seen(a doll's house is hardly smaller or prettier). Right and left, on eachside of little alleys, these little mansions rise; they have a courtletbefore them, in which some green plants or hollyhocks are growing;and to each house is a gate, that has mostly a picture or queer-carvedornament upon or about it, and bears the name, not of the Beguine whoinhabits it, but of the saint to whom she may have devoted it--the houseof St. Stephen, the house of St. Donatus, the English or Angel Convent, and so on. Old ladies in black are pacing in the quiet alleys here andthere, and drop the stranger a curtsy as he passes them and takes offhis hat. Never were such patterns of neatness seen as these old ladiesand their houses. I peeped into one or two of the chambers, of which thewindows were open to the pleasant evening sun, and saw beds scrupulouslyplain, a quaint old chair or two, and little pictures of favorite saintsdecorating the spotless white walls. The old ladies kept up a quick, cheerful clatter, as they paused to gossip at the gates of their littledomiciles; and with a great deal of artifice, and lurking behind walls, and looking at the church as if I intended to design that, I managed toget a sketch of a couple of them. 

But what white paper can render the whiteness of their linen; what blackink can do justice to the lustre of their gowns and shoes? Both of theladies had a neat ankle and a tight stocking; and I fancy that heavenis quite as well served in this costume as in the dress of a scowling, stockingless friar, whom I had seen passing just before. The look anddress of the man made me shudder. His great red feet were bound up ina shoe open at the toes, a kind of compromise for a sandal. I had justseen him and his brethren at the Dominican Church, where a mass of musicwas sung, and orange-trees, flags, and banners decked the aisle of thechurch. 

One begins to grow sick of these churches, and the hideous exhibitionsof bodily agonies that are depicted on the sides of all the chapels. Into one wherein we went this morning was what they called a Calvary: ahorrible, ghastly image of a Christ in a tomb, the figure of the naturalsize, and of the livid color of death; gaping red wounds on the body andround the brows: the whole piece enough to turn one sick, and fit onlyto brutalize the beholder of it. The Virgin is commonly represented witha dozen swords stuck in her heart; bleeding throats of headless JohnBaptists are perpetually thrust before your eyes. At the Cathedralgate was a papier-mache church-ornament shop--most of the carvings andreliefs of the same dismal character: one, for instance, representeda heart with a great gash in it, and a double row of large blood-dropsdribbling from it; nails and a knife were thrust into the heart; roundthe whole was a crown of thorns. Such things are dreadful to think of. The same gloomy spirit which made a religion of them, and worked uponthe people by the grossest of all means, terror, distracted the naturalfeelings of man to maintain its power--shut gentle women intolonely, pitiless convents--frightened poor peasants with talesof torment--taught that the end and labor of life was silence, wretchedness, and the scourge--murdered those by fagot and prisonwho thought otherwise. How has the blind and furious bigotry of manperverted that which God gave us as our greatest boon, and bid us hatewhere God bade us love! Thank heaven that monk has gone out of sight! Itis pleasant to look at the smiling, cheerful old Beguine, and think nomore of yonder livid face. 

One of the many convents in this little religious city seems to be thespecimen-house, which is shown to strangers, for all the guides conductyou thither, and I saw in a book kept for the purpose the names ofinnumerable Smiths and Joneses registered. 

A very kind, sweet-voiced, smiling nun (I wonder, do they always choosethe most agreeable and best-humored sister of the house to show it tostrangers?) came tripping down the steps and across the flags of thelittle garden-court, and welcomed us with much courtesy into the neatlittle old-fashioned, red-bricked, gable-ended, shining-windowed Conventof the Angels. First she showed us a whitewashed parlor, decorated witha grim picture or two and some crucifixes and other religious emblems, where, upon stiff old chairs, the sisters sit and work. Three or four ofthem were still there, pattering over their laces and bobbins; but thechief part of the sisterhood were engaged in an apartment hard by, fromwhich issued a certain odor which I must say resembled onions: it was infact the kitchen of the establishment. 

Every Beguine cooks her own little dinner in her own little pipkin; andthere was half a score of them, sure enough, busy over their pots andcrockery, cooking a repast which, when ready, was carried off to aneighboring room, the refectory, where, at a ledge-table which is drawnout from under her own particular cupboard, each nun sits down andeats her meal in silence. More religious emblems ornamented the carvedcupboard-doors, and within, everything was as neat as neat could be:shining pewter-ewers and glasses, snug baskets of eggs and pats ofbutter, and little bowls with about a farthing's-worth of green tea inthem--for some great day of fete, doubtless. The old ladies sat roundas we examined these things, each eating soberly at her ledge and neverlooking round. There was a bell ringing in the chapel hard by. "Hark!"said our guide, "that is one of the sisters dying. Will you come up andsee the cells?"

The cells, it need not be said, are the snuggest little nests in theworld, with serge-curtained beds and snowy linen, and saints and martyrspinned against the wall. "We may sit up till twelve o'clock, if welike, " said the nun; "but we have no fire and candle, and so what's theuse of sitting up? When we have said our prayers we are glad enough togo to sleep. "

I forget, although the good soul told us, how many times in the day, in public and in private, these devotions are made, but fancy that themorning service in the chapel takes place at too early an hour for mosteasy travellers. We did not fail to attend in the evening, when likewiseis a general muster of the seven hundred, minus the absent and sick, andthe sight is not a little curious and striking to a stranger. 

The chapel is a very big whitewashed place of worship, supported by halfa dozen columns on either side, over each of which stands the statueof an Apostle, with his emblem of martyrdom. Nobody was as yet at thedistant altar, which was too far off to see very distinctly; but I couldperceive two statues over it, one of which (St. Laurence, no doubt) wasleaning upon a huge gilt gridiron that the sun lighted up in a blaze--apainful but not a romantic instrument of death. A couple of old ladiesin white hoods were tugging and swaying about at two bell-ropes thatcame down into the middle of the church, and at least five hundredothers in white veils were seated all round about us in mutecontemplation until the service began, looking very solemn, and white, and ghastly, like an army of tombstones by moonlight. 

The service commenced as the clock finished striking seven: the organpealed out, a very cracked and old one, and presently some weak oldvoice from the choir overhead quavered out a canticle; which done, a thin old voice of a priest at the altar far off (and which had nowbecome quite gloomy in the sunset) chanted feebly another part of theservice; then the nuns warbled once more overhead; and it was curious tohear, in the intervals of the most lugubrious chants, how the organ wentoff with some extremely cheerful military or profane air. At one timewas a march, at another a quick tune; which ceasing, the old nuns beganagain, and so sung until the service was ended. 

In the midst of it one of the white-veiled sisters approached us with avery mysterious air, and put down her white veil close to our ears andwhispered. Were we doing anything wrong, I wondered? Were they come tothat part of the service where heretics and infidels ought to quit thechurch? What have you to ask, O sacred, white-veiled maid?

All she said was, "Deux centiemes pour les suisses, " which sum was paid;and presently the old ladies, rising from their chairs one by one, camein face of the altar, where they knelt down and said a short prayer;then, rising, unpinned their veils, and folded them up all exactly inthe same folds and fashion, and laid them square like napkins on theirheads, and tucked up their long black outer dresses, and trudged off totheir convents. 

The novices wear black veils, under one of which I saw a young, sad, handsome face; it was the only thing in the establishment that wasthe least romantic or gloomy: and, for the sake of any reader of asentimental turn, let us hope that the poor soul has been crossed inlove, and that over some soul-stirring tragedy that black curtain hasfallen. 

Ghent has, I believe, been called a vulgar Venice. It contains dirtycanals and old houses that must satisfy the most eager antiquary, thoughthe buildings are not quite in so good preservation as others that maybe seen in the Netherlands. The commercial bustle of the place seemsconsiderable, and it contains more beer-shops than any city I ever saw. 

These beer-shops seem the only amusement of the inhabitants, until, at least, the theatre shall be built, of which the elevation is nowcomplete, a very handsome and extensive pile. There are beer-shops inthe cellars of the houses, which are frequented, it is to be presumed, by the lower sort; there are beer-shops at the barriers, where thecitizens and their families repair; and beer-shops in the town, glaringwith gas, with long gauze blinds, however, to hide what I hear is arather questionable reputation. 

Our inn, the "Hotel of the Post, " a spacious and comfortable residence, is on a little place planted round with trees, and that seems to be thePalais Royal of the town. Three clubs, which look from without tobe very comfortable, ornament this square with their gas-lamps. Herestands, too, the theatre that is to be; there is a cafe, and on eveningsa military band plays the very worst music I ever remember to haveheard. I went out to-night to take a quiet walk upon this place, and thehorrid brazen discord of these trumpeters set me half mad. 

I went to the cafe for refuge, passing on the way a subterraneousbeer-shop, where men and women were drinking to the sweet music of acracked barrel-organ. They take in a couple of French papers at thiscafe, and the same number of Belgian journals. You may imagine how wellthe latter are informed, when you hear that the battle of Boulogne, fought by the immortal Louis Napoleon, was not known here until somegentlemen out of Norfolk brought the news from London, and until it hadtravelled to Paris, and from Paris to Brussels. For a whole hour I couldnot get a newspaper at the cafe. The horrible brass band in the meantimehad quitted the place, and now, to amuse the Ghent citizens, a couple oflittle boys came to the cafe and set up a small concert: one played illon the guitar, but sang, very sweetly, plaintive French ballads; theother was the comic singer; he carried about with him a queer, long, damp-looking, mouldy white hat, with no brim. "Ecoutez, " said the waiterto me, "il va faire l'Anglais; c'est tres drole!" The little roguemounted his immense brimless hat, and, thrusting his thumbs into thearmholes of his waistcoat, began to faire l'Anglais, with a song inwhich swearing was the principal joke. We all laughed at this, andindeed the little rascal seemed to have a good deal of humor. 

How they hate us, these foreigners, in Belgium as much as in France!What lies they tell of us; how gladly they would see us humiliated!Honest folks at home over their port-wine say, "Ay, ay, and very goodreason they have too. National vanity, sir, wounded--we have beaten themso often. " My dear sir, there is not a greater error in the worldthan this. They hate you because you are stupid, hard to please, and intolerably insolent and air-giving. I walked with an Englishmanyesterday, who asked the way to a street of which he pronounced the namevery badly to a little Flemish boy: the Flemish boy did not answer; andthere was my Englishman quite in a rage, shrieking in the child's earas if he must answer. He seemed to think that it was the duty of "thesnob, " as he called him, to obey the gentleman. This is why we arehated--for pride. In our free country a tradesman, a lackey, or awaiter will submit to almost any given insult from a gentleman: in thesebenighted lands one man is as good as another; and pray God it may soonbe so with us! Of all European people, which is the nation that has themost haughtiness, the strongest prejudices, the greatest reserve, thegreatest dulness? I say an Englishman of the genteel classes. An honestgroom jokes and hobs-and-nobs and makes his way with the kitchen-maids, for there is good social nature in the man; his master dare not unbend. Look at him, how he scowls at you on your entering an inn-room; thinkhow you scowl yourself to meet his scowl. To-day, as we were walking andstaring about the place, a worthy old gentleman in a carriage, seeing apair of strangers, took off his hat and bowed very gravely with hisold powdered head out of the window: I am sorry to say that our firstimpulse was to burst out laughing--it seemed so supremely ridiculousthat a stranger should notice and welcome another. 

As for the notion that foreigners hate us because we have beaten themso often, my dear sir, this is the greatest error in the world:well-educated Frenchmen DO NOT BELIEVE THAT WE HAVE BEATEN THEM. A manwas once ready to call me out in Paris because I said that we had beatenthe French in Spain; and here before me is a French paper, with aLondon correspondent discoursing about Louis Buonaparte and his jackassexpedition to Boulogne. "He was received at Eglintoun, it is true, " saysthe correspondent, "but what do you think was the reason? Because theEnglish nobility were anxious to revenge upon his person (with somecoups de lance) the checks which the 'grand homme' his uncle hadinflicted on us in Spain. "

This opinion is so general among the French, that they would laugh atyou with scornful incredulity if you ventured to assert any other. Foy'shistory of the Spanish War does not, unluckily, go far enough. I haveread a French history which hardly mentions the war in Spain, and callsthe battle of Salamanca a French victory. You know how the other day, and in the teeth of all evidence, the French swore to their victory ofToulouse: and so it is with the rest; and you may set it down as prettycertain, 1st, That only a few people know the real state of things inFrance, as to the matter in dispute between us; 2nd, That those who do, keep the truth to themselves, and so it is as if it had never been. 

These Belgians have caught up, and quite naturally, the French tone. We are perfide Albion with them still. Here is the Ghent paper, whichdeclares that it is beyond a doubt that Louis Napoleon was sent by theEnglish and Lord Palmerston; and though it states in another part ofthe journal (from English authority) that the Prince had never seen LordPalmerston, yet the lie will remain uppermost--the people and the editorwill believe it to the end of time. . . . See to what a digressionyonder little fellow in the tall hat has given rise! Let us make hispicture, and have done with him. 

I could not understand, in my walks about this place, which is certainlypicturesque enough, and contains extraordinary charms in the shape ofold gables, quaint spires, and broad shining canals--I could not atfirst comprehend why, for all this, the town was especially disagreeableto me, and have only just hit on the reason why. Sweetest Juliana, youwill never guess it: it is simply this, that I have not seen a singledecent-looking woman in the whole place; they look all ugly, with coarsemouths, vulgar figures, mean mercantile faces; and so the travellerwalking among them finds the pleasure of his walk excessively damped, and the impressions made upon him disagreeable. 

In the Academy there are no pictures of merit; but sometimes asecond-rate picture is as pleasing as the best, and one may pass an hourhere very pleasantly. There is a room appropriated to Belgian artists, of which I never saw the like: they are, like all the rest of the thingsin this country, miserable imitations of the French school--great nudeVenuses, and Junos a la David, with the drawing left out. 

BRUGES. 

The change from vulgar Ghent, with its ugly women and coarse bustle, to this quiet, old, half-deserted, cleanly Bruges, was very pleasant. Ihave seen old men at Versailles, with shabby coats and pigtails, sunningthemselves on the benches in the walls; they had seen better days, to besure, but they were gentlemen still: and so we found, this morning, olddowager Bruges basking in the pleasant August sun, and looking if notprosperous, at least cheerful and well-bred. It is the quaintest andprettiest of all the quaint and pretty towns I have seen. A paintermight spend months here, and wander from church to church, and admireold towers and pinnacles, tall gables, bright canals, and pretty littlepatches of green garden and moss-grown wall, that reflect in the clearquiet water. Before the inn-window is a garden, from which in the earlymorning issues a most wonderful odor of stocks and wallflowers; nextcomes a road with trees of admirable green; numbers of little childrenare playing in this road (the place is so clean that they may roll in itall day without soiling their pinafores), and on the other side of thetrees are little old-fashioned, dumpy, whitewashed, red-tiled houses. Apoorer landscape to draw never was known, nor a pleasanter to see--thechildren especially, who are inordinately fat and rosy. Let it beremembered, too, that here we are out of the country of ugly women: theexpression of the face is almost uniformly gentle and pleasing, and thefigures of the women, wrapped in long black monk-like cloaks and hoods, very picturesque. No wonder there are so many children: the "Guide-book"(omniscient Mr. Murray!) says there are fifteen thousand paupers in thetown, and we know how such multiply. How the deuce do their childrenlook so fat and rosy? By eating dirt-pies, I suppose. I saw a couplemaking a very nice savory one, and another employed in gravely stickingstrips of stick betwixt the pebbles at the house-door, and so making forherself a stately garden. The men and women don't seem to have much moreto do. There are a couple of tall chimneys at either suburb of the town, where no doubt manufactories are at work, but within the walls everybodyseems decently idle. 

We have been, of course, abroad to visit the lions. The tower in theGrand Place is very fine, and the bricks of which it is built do notyield a whit in color to the best stone. The great building round thistower is very like the pictures of the Ducal Palace at Venice; and thereis a long market area, with columns down the middle, from which hungshreds of rather lean-looking meat, that would do wonders under thehands of Cattermole or Haghe. In the tower there is a chime of bellsthat keep ringing perpetually. They not only play tunes of themselves, and every quarter of an hour, but an individual performs selections frompopular operas on them at certain periods of the morning, afternoon, andevening. I have heard to-day "Suoni la Tromba, " "Son Vergin Vezzosa, "from the "Puritani, " and other airs, and very badly they were playedtoo; for such a great monster as a tower-bell cannot be expected toimitate Madame Grisi or even Signor Lablache. Other churches indulge inthe same amusement, so that one may come here and live in melody all dayor night, like the young woman in Moore's "Lalla Rookh. "

In the matter of art, the chief attractions of Bruges are the picturesof Hemling, that are to be seen in the churches, the hospital, and thepicture-gallery of the place. There are no more pictures of Rubens tobe seen, and, indeed, in the course of a fortnight, one has had quiteenough of the great man and his magnificent, swaggering canvases. Whata difference is here with simple Hemling and the extraordinary creationsof his pencil! The hospital is particularly rich in them; and the legendthere is that the painter, who had served Charles the Bold in his waragainst the Swiss, and his last battle and defeat, wandered back woundedand penniless to Bruges, and here found cure and shelter. 

This hospital is a noble and curious sight. The great hall is almostas it was in the twelfth century; it is spanned by Saxon arches, andlighted by a multiplicity of Gothic windows of all sizes; it is verylofty, clean, and perfectly well ventilated; a screen runs across themiddle of the room, to divide the male from the female patients, and wewere taken to examine each ward, where the poor people seemed happierthan possibly they would have been in health and starvation without it. Great yellow blankets were on the iron beds, the linen was scrupulouslyclean, glittering pewter-jugs and goblets stood by the side of eachpatient, and they were provided with godly books (to judge fromthe binding), in which several were reading at leisure. Honest oldcomfortable nuns, in queer dresses of blue, black, white, and flannel, were bustling through the room, attending to the wants of the sick. Isaw about a dozen of these kind women's faces: one was young--all werehealthy and cheerful. One came with bare blue arms and a great pile oflinen from an outhouse--such a grange as Cedric the Saxon might havegiven to a guest for the night. A couple were in a laboratory, a tall, bright, clean room, 500 years old at least. "We saw you were notvery religious, " said one of the old ladies, with a red, wrinkled, good-humored face, "by your behavior yesterday in chapel. " And yetwe did not laugh and talk as we used at college, but were profoundlyaffected by the scene that we saw there. It was a fete-day: a mass ofMozart was sung in the evening--not well sung, and yet so exquisitelytender and melodious, that it brought tears into our eyes. There werenot above twenty people in the church: all, save three or four, werewomen in long black cloaks. I took them for nuns at first. They were, however, the common people of the town, very poor indeed, doubtless, for the priest's box that was brought round was not added to by most ofthem, and their contributions were but two-cent pieces, --five of thesego to a penny; but we know the value of such, and can tell the exactworth of a poor woman's mite! The box-bearer did not seem at firstwilling to accept our donation--we were strangers and heretics; however, I held out my hand, and he came perforce as it were. Indeed it had onlya franc in it: but que voulez-vous? I had been drinking a bottle ofRhine wine that day, and how was I to afford more? The Rhine wine isdear in this country, and costs four francs a bottle. 

Well, the service proceeded. Twenty poor women, two Englishmen, fourragged beggars, cowering on the steps; and there was the priest at thealtar, in a great robe of gold and damask, two little boys in whitesurplices serving him, holding his robe as he rose and bowed, and themoney-gatherer swinging his censer, and filling the little chapel withsmoke. The music pealed with wonderful sweetness; you could see the primwhite heads of the nuns in their gallery. The evening light streameddown upon old statues of saints and carved brown stalls, and lighted upthe head of the golden-haired Magdalen in a picture of the entombmentof Christ. Over the gallery, and, as it were, a kind protectress to thepoor below, stood the statue of the Virgin. 

III. --WATERLOO. 

It is, my dear, the happy privilege of your sex in England to quit thedinner-table after the wine-bottles have once or twice gone round it, and you are thereby saved (though, to be sure, I can't tell what theladies do up stairs)--you are saved two or three hours' excessivedulness, which the men are obliged to go through. 

I ask any gentleman who reads this--the letters to my Juliana beingwritten with an eye to publication--to remember especially how manytimes, how many hundred times, how many thousand times, in his hearing, the battle of Waterloo has been discussed after dinner, and to call tomind how cruelly he has been bored by the discussion. "Ah, it was luckyfor us that the Prussians came up!" says one little gentleman, lookingparticularly wise and ominous. "Hang the Prussians!" (or, perhaps, something stronger "the Prussians!") says a stout old major on half-pay. "We beat the French without them, sir, as beaten them we always have!We were thundering down the hill of Belle Alliance, sir, at the backsof them, and the French were crying 'Sauve qui peut' long before thePrussians ever touched them!" And so the battle opens, and for manymortal hours, amid rounds of claret, rages over and over again. 

I thought to myself considering the above things, what a fine thing itwill be in after-days to say that I have been to Brussels and never seenthe field of Waterloo; indeed, that I am such a philosopher as not tocare a fig about the battle--nay, to regret, rather, that when Napoleoncame back, the British Government had not spared their men and left himalone. 

But this pitch of philosophy was unattainable. This morning, afterhaving seen the Park, the fashionable boulevard, the pictures, thecafes--having sipped, I say, the sweets of every flower that grows inthis paradise of Brussels, quite weary of the place, we mounted on aNamur diligence, and jingled off at four miles an hour for Waterloo. 

The road is very neat and agreeable: the Forest of Soignies here andthere interposes pleasantly, to give your vehicle a shade; the country, as usual, is vastly fertile and well cultivated. A farmer and theconducteur were my companions in the imperial, and could I haveunderstood their conversation, my dear, you should have had certainly areport of it. The jargon which they talked was, indeed, most queer andpuzzling--French, I believe, strangely hashed up and pronounced, forhere and there one could catch a few words of it. Now and anon, however, they condescended to speak in the purest French they could muster; and, indeed, nothing is more curious than to hear the French of the country. You can't understand why all the people insist upon speaking it sobadly. I asked the conductor if he had been at the battle; he burst outlaughing like a philosopher, as he was, and said "Pas si bete. " I askedthe farmer whether his contributions were lighter now than in KingWilliam's time, and lighter than those in the time of the Emperor? Hevowed that in war-time he had not more to pay than in time of peace (andthis strange fact is vouched for by every person of every nation), and being asked wherefore the King of Holland had been ousted fromhis throne, replied at once, "Parceque c'etoit un voleur:" for whichaccusation I believe there is some show of reason, his Majesty havinglaid hands on much Belgian property before the lamented outbreak whichcost him his crown. A vast deal of laughing and roaring passed betweenthese two worldly people and the postilion, whom they called "baron, "and I thought no doubt that this talk was one of the many jokes that mycompanions were in the habit of making. But not so: the postilion was anactual baron, the bearer of an ancient name, the descendant of gallantgentlemen. Good heavens! what would Mrs. Trollope say to see hislordship here? His father the old baron had dissipated the familyfortune, and here was this young nobleman, at about five-and-forty, compelled to bestride a clattering Flemish stallion, and bump over dustypavements at the rate of five miles an hour. But see the beauty of highblood: with what a calm grace the man of family accommodates himself tofortune. Far from being cast down, his lordship met his fate like a man:he swore and laughed the whole of the journey, and as we changed horses, condescended to partake of half a pint of Louvain beer, to which thefarmer treated him--indeed the worthy rustic treated me to a glass too. 

Much delight and instruction have I had in the course of the journeyfrom my guide, philosopher, and friend, the author of "Murray'sHandbook. " He has gathered together, indeed, a store of information, and must, to make his single volume, have gutted many hundreds ofguide-books. How the Continental ciceroni must hate him, whoever he is!Every English party I saw had this infallible red book in their hands, and gained a vast deal of historical and general information from it. Thus I heard, in confidence, many remarkable anecdotes of Charles V. , the Duke of Alva, Count Egmont, all of which I had before perceived, with much satisfaction, not only in the "Handbook, " but even in otherworks. 

The Laureate is among the English poets evidently the great favorite ofour guide: the choice does honor to his head and heart. A man must havea very strong bent for poetry, indeed, who carries Southey's works inhis portmanteau, and quotes them in proper time and occasion. Of courseat Waterloo a spirit like our guide's cannot fail to be deeply moved, and to turn to his favorite poet for sympathy. Hark how the laureatedbard sings about the tombstones at Waterloo:--

 "That temple to our hearts was hallow'd now, For many a wounded Briton there was laid, With such for help as time might then allow, From the fresh carnage of the field conveyed. And they whom human succor could not save, Here, in its precincts, found a hasty grave. And here, on marble tablets, set on high, In English lines by foreign workmen traced, The names familiar to an English eye, Their brethren here the fit memorial placed; Whose unadorned inscriptions briefly tell THEIR GALLANT COMRADES' rank, and where they fell. The stateliest monument of human pride, Enriched with all magnificence of art, To honor chieftains who in victory died, Would wake no stronger feeling in the heart Than these plain tablets by the soldier's hand Raised to his comrades in a foreign land. "

There are lines for you! wonderful for justice, rich in thought andnovel ideas. The passage concerning their gallant comrades' rank shouldbe specially remarked. There indeed they lie, sure enough: the HonorableColonel This of the Guards, Captain That of the Hussars, Major So-and-Soof the Dragoons, brave men and good, who did their duty by their countryon that day, and died in the performance of it. 

Amen. But I confess fairly, that in looking at these tablets, I feltvery much disappointed at not seeing the names of the MEN as well as theofficers. Are they to be counted for nought? A few more inches of marbleto each monument would have given space for all the names of the men;and the men of that day were the winners of the battle. We have a rightto be as grateful individually to any given private as to any givenofficer; their duties were very much the same. Why should the countryreserve its gratitude for the genteel occupiers of the army-list, and forget the gallant fellows whose humble names were written in theregimental books? In reading of the Wellington wars, and the conductof the men engaged in them, I don't know whether to respect them orto wonder at them most. They have death, wounds, and poverty incontemplation; in possession, poverty, hard labor, hard fare, andsmall thanks. If they do wrong, they are handed over to the inevitableprovost-marshal; if they are heroes, heroes they may be, but theyremain privates still, handling the old brown-bess, starving on the oldtwopence a day. They grow gray in battle and victory, and after thirtyyears of bloody service, a young gentleman of fifteen, fresh from apreparatory school, who can scarcely read, and came but yesterday with apinafore in to papa's dessert--such a young gentleman, I say, arrivesin a spick-and-span red coat, and calmly takes the command over ourveteran, who obeys him as if God and nature had ordained that sothroughout time it should be. 

That privates should obey, and that they should be smartly punished ifthey disobey, this one can understand very well. But to say obey forever and ever--to say that Private John Styles is, by some physicaldisproportion, hopelessly inferior to Cornet Snooks--to say that Snooksshall have honors, epaulets, and a marble tablet if he dies, and thatStyles shall fight his fight, and have his twopence a day, and whenshot down shall be shovelled into a hole with other Styleses, and soforgotten; and to think that we had in the course of the last warsome 400, 000 of these Styleses, and some 10, 000, say, of the Snookssort--Styles being by nature exactly as honest, clever, and brave asSnooks--and to think that the 400, 000 should bear this, is the wonder!

Suppose Snooks makes a speech. "Look at these Frenchmen, Britishsoldiers, " says he, "and remember who they are. Two-and-twenty yearssince they hurled their King from his throne and murdered him" (groans). "They flung out of their country their ancient and famous nobility--theypublished the audacious doctrine of equality--they made a cadetof artillery, a beggarly lawyer's son, into an Emperor, and tookignoramuses from the ranks--drummers and privates, by Jove!--of whomthey made kings, generals, and marshals! Is this to be borne?" (Cries of"No! no!") "Upon them, my boys! down with these godless revolutionists, and rally round the British lion!"

So saying, Ensign Snooks (whose flag, which he can't carry, is held bya huge grizzly color-sergeant, ) draws a little sword, and pipes out afeeble huzza. The men of his company, roaring curses at the Frenchmen, prepare to receive and repel a thundering charge of French cuirassiers. The men fight, and Snooks is knighted because the men fought so well. 

But live or die, win or lose, what do THEY get? English glory is toogenteel to meddle with those humble fellows. She does not condescend toask the names of the poor devils whom she kills in her service. Why wasnot every private man's name written upon the stones in Waterloo Churchas well as every officer's? Five hundred pounds to the stone-cutterswould have served to carve the whole catalogue, and paid the poorcompliment of recognition to men who died in doing their duty. If theofficers deserved a stone, the men did. But come, let us away and drop atear over the Marquis of Anglesea's leg!

As for Waterloo, has it not been talked of enough after dinner? Here aresome oats that were plucked before Hougoumont, where grow not onlyoats, but flourishing crops of grape-shot, bayonets, and legion-of-honorcrosses, in amazing profusion. 

Well, though I made a vow not to talk about Waterloo either here orafter dinner, there is one little secret admission that one must makeafter seeing it. Let an Englishman go and see that field, and he NEVERFORGETS IT. The sight is an event in his life; and, though it has beenseen by millions of peaceable GENTS--grocers from Bond Street, meekattorneys from Chancery Lane, and timid tailors from Piccadilly--I willwager that there is not one of them but feels a glow as he looks at theplace, and remembers that he, too, is an Englishman. 

It is a wrong, egotistical, savage, unchristian feeling, and that'sthe truth of it. A man of peace has no right to be dazzled by thatred-coated glory, and to intoxicate his vanity with those remembrancesof carnage and triumph. The same sentence which tells us that on earththere ought to be peace and good-will amongst men, tells us to whomGLORY belongs.