Chapter V: Part 5

I HAVE achieved a victory which should fire the heart of any tasteful bibliomaniac. _I stand seized of Lamb._ Understand me, reader, 'tis no juvenile mutton, whereof I am possessed; not adolescent merino, or embryo ram. By no manner of means; contrariwise, it is TALFOURD's brief memoir, and a most succulent correspondence, by the author of 'ELIA.' 'Tis a thing over which a father may waken his boy, in the small hours of the morning, (being yet unmovéd bedward,) by a multitudinous guffaw. Rosy slumber, ruptured by obstreperous laughter; but ah! how decidedly unavoidable!

Yes; I write myself proprietor for the nonce of a London edition. My name is written in 'LAMB's Book of Life;' say rather, in a Book of the Life of Lamb. Most hugeously do I relish his quaint conceits, and those dainty sentences, the fashioning whereof came to him unbidden, from spirits of the olden time, bending from the clouds of fame. (By-the-by, what an unconscionable dog was Ossian! He always kept a score or two of heroes, sitting half-dressed on cold clouds, making speeches. 'Twas most unkind of him. But he lived in a rude age.) Lamb was one of those precious few of whom the world is not worthy. He wrote from the impulses of a noble heart, guided to new expression by a mind clear as the brook of Siloa, that flowed by the oracles of God. He was not one of your persons who are dignified by the phrase 'all heart,' for he had a prolific brain, which all-hearted people generally lack. Of course, he disciplined himself betwixt a desk at the India-House, and his social hours, or studious; but what golden fruitage sprang therefrom! None of your crude sentences, half-formed, unlicked, unpolished; but full of meaning; succinct to the eye, and harmonious to the ear. There is a light from his pen, which can illumine the saddest hour. He went forth to amuse and enlighten, as the sun gets up in the morning to cheer the world, 'with all his fires and travelling glories round him.' Essayist incomparable! How would he have looked writing a prize-tale for the horror-mongers!

* * * * *

IN respect of these latter things, how many double-distilled atrocities of that kind are now and then committed at this day! They must be filled with blood and murder; piracy, thieving, villany of all sorts, must be thrown in, to make the mixture 'slab and good.' This is the result of the ten thousand pages of trash, which the want of a copy-right law entails upon us from England. _Improbability_ is the first ingredient, to which assassination, seduction, and all kinds of crime, must approximate. Let me give a specimen:

'THE FATAL VOW.'

'It was late in the fall of 18--, (convenient blank!) when, as
the night had come on, on a stormy evening, a dreadful tempest
arose in the west. The lightning flashed, the thunder faintly
bellowed for a time; but soon the lightning discontinued,
though the thunder moaned on. It was pitch dark--darkness
Egyptian. The sight was palsied and checked within an inch
of the eye. At this juncture, two men on horseback might
have been seen, at the distance of half a mile from the
river ----, riding through a thick wood. One of them was of
sallow complexion, with huge black whiskers; he rode a horse
of the color called by rural people 'pumpkin-and-milk,' or
cream-color, rather. In his holster were two pistols. He wore
a broad slouching hat, apparently unpaid for. A frown, blacker
considerably than hell, darkened his brow. Turning to his
companion, a weazen-faced man, with a red head, mounted on what
is called a 'calico mare,' he said:

'Well, Jakarzil, shall we do the deed to-night?'

'It would ill befit the noble Count d'Urzilio de Belleville,'
said the dependant, 'to shoot that ill-fated lady at the
present time. It would not _look_ well.'

'I care not for the looks!' replied the count, curling his lip,
and placing in his sinister cheek a piece of tobacco, 'I must
have vengeance! If the candle is not at the casement, I shall
bu'st the door. I want revenge!'

'TO BE CONTINUED.'

This is like the modern tales. Meditated butchery, successful scoundrelism, and other delectables, make up their sum. As the fragment just read may never be concluded, I will mention the fate of the parties. The hero shot his grandmother out of _pique_, and was hung; Jakarzil, his man, is in the penitentiary for horse-stealing.

* * * * *

SOME of my unpoetical friends think I have underrated the Falls at Catskill. Heaven save the mark! They have never seen Niagara, and are therefore contented with a few grim rocks, the gate of a mill-dam, and grandeur by the gallon; for thus, in a manner, is it sold. No! Let these untravelled but clever fellows once hear the roar that shakes Goat-Island, and the region round about; see the river that pours its mile-wide breakers down, and mark the rainbow smile! Ever thereafter will they hold their peace.

* * * * *

ONE or two credulous persons have fancied that the sketch of 'Smith of Smithopolis' was designed as an imputation upon the name. The said imputation is disdained, by these presents. I have a decided regard for that style and title: companionship, familiarity, personal knowledge, (so grateful to the inquiring mind,) are its synonyms. Beside, I honor the name, for sundry associations. Who has never rode in a rail-car, a steam-boat, or a coach, with a person of the name of Smith? Or heard him speak at a public meeting? Or owed him a trifle? Or had a trifle due from him, the Smith aforesaid? _Nemo_--'I undertake to say'--(in fact I not only _undertake_ this vocal enterprise, but I _accomplish_ it.) Aside, reader, 'tis a criticism on the phrase; which whoso uses when he knows what he is about to set down in palpable chirography, is a _sumph_ unqualified: _Anglice_, one of the flat 'uns, named of _Stulti_.

The Smiths are numerous, 'tis said. Grant it. Who pays more post-office revenue? Who more quickly resents a jeer upon the name? Tell me that. 'Not nobody.' Would you look for heroes? The Smiths could supply them. For female goodness and devotion? The same, from the same. For wit, genius, and elevated-talent? _Vide_ Horace and James, of the Addresses, and Richard Penn; the studious scholar, good lawyer, quaint citizen, novelist, poet, dramatist--every thing clever.

* * * * *

I HAD many more things to say, courteous reader; but I fear, from what I have written, you may augur a bore. Heaven forfend! Consequently, thine in conclusion, I write myself, henceforth, now, and formerly,

OLLAPOD.

FOOTNOTE:

[10] Apropos of this 'supererogatory and adscititious' prohibition. The small steamers which ply on the beautiful Connecticut, above the ancient fortification of 'Göed Höop,' renowned in KNICKERBOCKER's veracious history, and now known as 'Dutch Point,' have but one paddle-wheel, which is placed some six or eight feet astern. The voyager in these pretty craft is forcibly struck with the necessity of obeying a printed order, conspicuously posted: _No smoking abaft the wheel!_' And those who watch from the shore the locomotive column of spray, (like the 'pillar of cloud by day' that concealed the Israelites,) which hides the boat from view, in its upward passage, must also be of opinion that his 'pipe' would be soon 'put-out,' who should attempt to smoke in so moist a region.

EXAMPLE.

HIS faults that in a private station sits,
Do mainly harm him only that commits:
Those placed on high a bright example owe--
Much to themselves, more to the crowd below.
A paltry watch, in private pocket borne,
Misleads but him alone by whom 'tis worn;
But the town-clock, that steeples oft display,
By going wrong, leads half the town astray.

THE COMING OF WINTER.

I.

THE wintry months are here again--
Around us are their snows and storms;
The tempest shrieks along the plain,
The forest heaves its giant forms.

II.

The drifting sleet flies from the hill,
Thick clouds deform the threat'ning sky;
While in the vale, the birds are still,
And chain'd by frosts, the waters lie.

III.

Ah! where is now the merry May,
The green banks, and the leafy bowers?
The cricket's chirp, the linnet's lay,
That gave such sweetness to the hours?

IV.

And where the sunny sky, that round
This world of glad and breathing things,
Came with its sweetness and its sound,
Its golden light and glancing wings?

V.

Alas! the eye falls now no more
On flowery field, or hill, or plain;
Nor for the ear the woodlands pour
One glad note of the summer's strain!

VI.

The green leaves stript have left the woods
Towering--their tall arms bleak and bare;
And now they choke the sounding floods,
Or fill, in clouds, the rushing air!

VII.

Yet turn we here! The winter's fire,
Its crackling faggots blazing bright,
Hath joys that never, never tire,
And looks that fill us with delight.

VIII.

Home's joys! Ah yes, 'tis these are ours,
Home's looks and hearts! 'tis these can bring
A something sweeter than the flowers,
And purer than the airs of spring.

IX.

Then welcome be old Winter here!
Ay! welcome be the stormy hour;
Our kindly looks and social cheer
Shall cheat the monarch of his power!

X.

With mirth and joy the hours we'll crown--
Love to our festival we'll bring!
And calm the sturdy blusterer down,
And make him smiling as the spring!

_New-Haven, November 13th, 1837._ B. T. W.

OCEOLA'S CHALLENGE.

LATE accounts from St. Augustine state, that the recent capture
of the Indian chiefs has by no means increased the friendly
feelings of the red men toward the whites. 'There will yet be
hard fighting, and they will be rendered more desperate than
ever. Even the captives seem to doubt that they will be sent
out of the country.'

* * * * *

COME on! O'er prairie, bluff, and swamp,
By bush, and rock, and tree,
Where'er an Indian's foot may tramp,
Where'er ye march, where'er ye camp,
My warrior band shall be!

Come on! My words are plain and few,
My greeting brief and free
But if ye think it less than due,
With deadly aim, my rifle true
Shall welcome speak for me.

Come on! And if ye miss the track
Left by the red man's tread,
Well shall ye know the pathway back!
We'll strew it, lest a guide ye lack,
With heaps of scalpless dead!

Come on! Our sires your fathers fought
In these green wilds of old,
We ask ye, and we owe ye nought,
And know, these lands, that ne'er were bought,
Can but for blood be sold!

_November, 1837._ H.

RANDOM PASSAGES

FROM ROUGH NOTES OF A VISIT TO ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, FRANCE, SWITZERLAND, AND GERMANY.

NUMBER EIGHT.

PRUSSIA--BELGIUM.

COLOGNE, SEPTEMBER 14TH.--On the arrival of the steam-boat, (_alias, dampschïffen_, or _le bateau à vapeur_,) the bells of the town were ringing, cannons firing, a band of music playing, and the _quais_ were filled with at least five thousand people, who were kept in order by a party of soldiers. Some distinguished personage seemed to be expected in the boat, but there was none forthcoming. The military cleared a passage through the crowd, and we landed without any confusion, although it was dark, and there were three hundred passengers (picked up on the way,) to be supplied with porters and lodgings; and the place was known to be full. At the fourth hotel I applied to, alone, in the dark, in a strange place, I succeeded in securing an attic; but many others were even less fortunate.

After supper, I made a sally through the principal streets, which are well lighted with gas. It seems to be a busy and cheerful place, much like Paris; buildings irregular, streets crooked, and ill-paved. The far-famed _Eau-de-Cologne_ forms a considerable article of its trade, and has contributed not a little to familiarize its name all over the world. The four brothers Farina rival each other in the manufacture; but the most noted artist is Jean Maria Farina. I took a peep into his establishment; and were it not that His Majesty of England would make me pay for it over again, I should like to send you some of the 'genuine article.'

* * * * *

AIX LA CHAPELLE, SEPTEMBER 15TH.--My present date is from the city of Charlemagne. 'To begin where I left off.' While writing last evening in my _lofty_ apartment, looking out upon the Rhine, the music on the quay suddenly re-commenced, and the enthusiastic shouts of the populace announced that the expected visitor had arrived. It proved to be the crown prince of Prussia, and his two brothers. Prussia now extends, as you are aware, this side of the Rhine as far as Aix. The present king and all his family are said to be exceedingly and deservedly popular with the people. The government, although in theory despotic, is evidently mild and liberal in practice. In education, I need not tell you, Prussia stands prëeminent; and if you are curious for information on this point, I would refer you to the recent report of Victor Cousin.[11] The regulations of the police, the public conveyances, etc., in the Prussian dominions are certainly excellent.

I was early awake this morning, in order to finish exploring Cologne before six, the starting hour for Aix. Escorted by a young cicerone, who 'politely volunteered his services,' I went first to the cathedral, one of the most celebrated on the continent. Five hundred years have elapsed since this edifice was commenced, and yet it is scarcely half finished! The choir only is quite completed, and this is very elaborately decorated within and without. The grass is actually growing on the towers, which have as yet attained but one third of their intended elevation, (five hundred feet,) and being connected with the choir merely by a temporary structure, they look like ruins of a separate edifice. Yet, even in its present state, the cathedral of Cologne is a wonderful specimen of human ingenuity and perseverance. I followed my cicerone to the head of the choir, behind the great altar, where he pointed to a richly-ornamented monument, as the tomb of the 'Three Kings of Cologne.' It is to be hoped you are versed in the veritable history of these same three kings, as well as that of the eleven thousand virgins before-mentioned, for neither memory nor time will permit me to edify you in 'legendary lore.'

Mass had already commenced, at this early hour, and the good people were kneeling reverently on the marble floor, saying their paternosters and counting their beads, or watching, with humble simplicity, the movements of the priest before the altar. I observed one of the boys employed to swing the censers of burning incense, turn round occasionally, with a piteous yawn. The painted windows in this cathedral are very elaborate and beautiful. I had time to 'drop in' to several other churches during matins, where I saw much that was curious and dazzling, and heard some fine organ-music.

There were twenty-two passengers 'booked' for Aix, and according to law, they were obliged to send extras for as many as applied before the hour. This route to Brussels and Ostend is much travelled by the English, in preference to continuing on the Rhine to Rotterdam.

It was a bright morning again, and the ride proved rather pleasant, though somewhat monotonous. The country, for several miles out of Cologne, is nearly level, and almost quite treeless: near the city, it is laid out in one vast vegetable-garden, without any enclosure, as is often the case on the continent. Poaching does not seem to be dreamed of. The fortifications of Cologne, and those of Juliers, our first stopping-place, are of the most substantial kind. Juliers is surrounded by three distinct walls, each about twenty feet thick, and separated by broad deep ditches, or canals. And yet in the present _refined_ state of the art of war, this fortress is far from being impregnable.

We arrived at Aix at 3 P. M., and having taken a place for an evening ride to Liege, and had my passport _vised_ at the Hotel de Ville, the next thing was to visit the cathedral containing the bones of the great CHARLEMAGNE. His tomb is under the floor, in the centre of the church, and is covered by a plain marble slab, on which is inscribed in _lofty_ simplicity,

'CAROLUS MAGNO.'

After looking at the throne of the 'grand monarque,' and at the immense windows of the choir, (remarkable for the lightness and elegance of their frames,) we were conducted by a priest to a closet, or _sanctum sanctorum_, to see the famous cabinet of precious relics.[12] I send you a printed account of these veritable relics, and as to their authenticity, it is to be hoped your bump of marvelousness is too large to permit you to doubt. Will you not look upon me with a 'thrilling interest,' when I tell you that I have seen and touched them with my bodily hands? They gravely tell you how the 'sacred' articles were obtained, and how they were presented to Charlemagne by the patriarch of Jerusalem. I doubt not they really find them _precious_ articles of speculation, and would be grieved to hear a suspicion of their being genuine. The linens worn by the virgin when Christ was born, are among those too sacred for common eyes, and are only shown in seven years, with much 'pomp and circumstance.'

By the way, I saw also the splendid crown of Isabella of Castile and Arragon, (the patron of Columbus,) of pure gold, covered with diamonds. And in London I forgot to tell you of Charlemagne's Bible, a magnificent folio MSS., on parchment, richly illuminated, etc. It had intrinsic and unquestioned evidence of being executed for the emperor by Eginhard, the historian of that period. It was 'bought in' at auction, for £1500, ($7,500,) but finally sold to the British Museum. But you must be tired of relics.

* * * * *

LIEGE, SEPTEMBER 16.--Last evening I reconnoitred the town of Aix la Chapelle, heard two acts of the 'Marriage of Figaro' admirably sung in the Grecian Opera-House, and then stepped into the 'Schnell-Post.' On the frontiers of Belgium, about midnight, we were stopped at a 'Bureau de Police,' our luggage was all taken off and searched, and our passports examined, during which operations we all 'kept our patience,' save a poor Frenchman, who had to pay duty on a couple of boxes of cologne, snugly stowed in his trunk. After rewarding the worthy gentlemen for their politeness, we were suffered to proceed.

Liege, you will recollect, beside being famous in history, was the scene of the tragedy so vividly pictured in 'Quentin Durward,' the murder of the bishop by the 'Wild Boar of Ardennes.' The bishop's palace was a short distance from the town, but no traces of it remain. His city palace, (noted for its eccentric architecture, each of the interior pillars being in a different style,) is now used as a market-house. Liege is built on both sides of the river Meuse. It is quite a manufacturing place, as well as lively and pleasant, and seems to be regaining its former importance. The shop-windows present a really brilliant display of merchandise, of every description. Two of the modern streets, strange to say, are well paved, and have sidewalks four feet wide; an unusual phenomenon on the continent. In the course of my ramble, I dropped into three or four churches, for the churches in these countries are open at all times; and they have abundant attraction, at least in painting, sculpture, architecture, and music; in short, they are museums of the fine arts. The prevalence of superstition among the good people seems strange in this 'enlightened age;' and yet on the whole, we cannot wonder at it, if the proverb be true that 'Ignorance is the mother of Devotion.' One of the printed notices of holy days, etc., in honor of the virgin and the saints, commences on this wise: '_Marie le Mère de Dieu, est dignes de notre homage_,' etc.

* * * * *

NAMUR, 16.--The ride from Liege to this place (forty miles,) along the banks of the Meuse, was delightful.[13] The scenery, if not _pittoresque_, in the Frenchman's sense, is at least beautiful. There was a very perceptible difference in the diligences on leaving the Prussian dominions; the Belgian vehicle being large, clumsy, heavy-loaded, and drawn by three miserable, creeping compounds of skin and bones. On leaving Liege, we passed several close-looking, high-walled convents and nunneries in the environs. There was little else to notice during the journey, except the boats on the Meuse, drawn up by horses; and the cathedral and walls of Huy, the half-way town. In approaching Namur, the road makes a broad circuit, and enters the gate on the Brussels side, giving the traveller an imposing view of the fortifications on the heights overlooking the town. It was late in the evening, when the diligence set us down near the Hotel de Hollande, in which I am now snugly disposed of, a solitary guest.

* * * * *

BRUSSELS, 17TH.--I was on the top of the diligence this morning at six, for another ride of thirty-six miles to the capital of Belgium, over the field of Waterloo. The only village on the route worth mentioning is Genappe. At noon we came in sight of a large mound, in the form of a pyramid, surmounted by a figure of an animal. It proved to be the Belgic lion-monument, commemorating the great victory of the allies. We soon came up to, and passed over the centre of, the battle-field, our conducteur meanwhile pointing out the various localities which he doubtless has often had occasion to do before: 'Le Maison ou Napoleon logé.' 'Wellington et Blucher.' A tablet over the door of the cottage explained: '_La belle Alliance. Recontre des Generaux Wellington et Blucher dans la bataille memorable de Juin 18, 1815._' On the right of the road, 'L'armie Prusse;' farther on, 'L'armie Anglais;' on the left, 'L'armie Française.' We had now come where the fight raged thickest, at present marked only by the monuments to the more distinguished victims. The field is smaller than I supposed. Those great armies must have been necessarily in close contact. This is the spot, then, where, at the expense of the lives of twenty thousand men, the mastership not only of France but of all Europe was decided.

'And here I stand upon the place of skulls,
The grave of France--the deadly Waterloo!'

And here, where on that dreadful night, the groans of the wounded and dying went up to heaven, calling aloud for retribution on their ambitious fellow man, who sought, at whatever cost, to

'Get the start of the majestic world,
And bear the palm alone;'

here you now see only the peaceful labors of the peasant women, planting their flax and potatoes over the graves of the slaughtered, which scarcely have a 'stone to tell where they lie,' or to remind you of the stirring scenes of the night when the gayety of the ball at Brussels was changed to anxious terror, by the cry of 'The foe! they come!--they come!'

After leaving the field, we passed through the straggling village of Waterloo, (now the abode of cicerones and speculators in old swords, muskets, and sundry other relics of the 'grand bataille,' most of which are doubtless manufactured for the special benefit of credulous tourists), we entered a thick and beautiful grove, two or three miles long, and soon came in sight of the capital, which is nine miles from Waterloo. The general view of Brussels, on this side, is not more imposing than that of several minor towns; and the quarter we entered was still less favorable for a 'first impression.' Instead of the fortified portal, usual in insignificant villages in Germany, the city is guarded at the 'Porte de Namur' by a wooden fence, scarcely fit for a cow-pasture. In the 'Rue Haute,' which we first traversed, the houses are neither high nor handsome; most of them with gable-ends to the street, in the primitive Dutch style. But when I arrived at the 'Hotel de Bellevue,' (chosen at random from the list,) the face of things was changed. This hotel is in a large and splendid square, next to the king's palace, and the public buildings, and directly opposite the park, one of the most beautiful in Europe. The Rues Royale, de Brabant and de Zoi, which enclose that charming promenade, are decidedly superior to Rivoli, the boast of Paris. The royal palace and that of the 'prince hereditary,' are near each other, in a corner of the square; and on the opposite side, extending the whole length of the park, is the immense palace of the States' General. These buildings are all of the light cream color, so prevalent in Paris and Frankfort. The park is adorned with several fine pieces of sculpture, including a series of the Roman emperors. The views from the various avenues through the trees are magnificent. In rambling through the fairy place, I heard, from a building in the corner,

----'A sound of revelry by night,
For Belgium's capitol had gathered _now_
Her beauty and her chivalry.'

It certainly has gathered a quantity of English visitors, for the hotels are full of them, and they are now listening to 'music with _its_ voluptuous swell,' at the opera, where I doubt not

'Soft eyes look love to eyes which speak again,
And all goes merry as a marriage bell.'

* * * * *

18TH.--Just finished lionizing. Firstly, churches; St. Jacques; Corinthian order; remarkably elegant and tasteful: Notre Dame des Victoires, Notre Dame de Chapelle, and St. Michael; cathedrals richly adorned with paintings and sculpture. The towers of St. Michael are massive and conspicuous objects in the panorama of the city; and the magnificence of the interior is really astonishing. High mass was here also in operation in more than usual splendor, but I need not detail the ceremonies, with which I am free to say I was more amused than edified. In these cathedrals, as you are aware, there are no such things as pews, or permanent seats. The multitude are content to kneel on the cold stone floor, or if perchance a few chairs are provided, the occupants are often interrupted in their 'Ave Marias' by a summons for the rent thereof. Much did some of them seem to marvel that my heretical self touched not the holy water. 'While I stood wrapped in the wonder of it,' comes up a batallion of about one hundred young ladies, all dressed alike, in black silk frocks and straw bonnets, respectable and intelligent-looking girls, probably belonging to some large Catholic seminary. They were escorted by two ladies into the choir.

Close by Notre Dame, I passed a grog-shop with this sign, verbatim.

'À LA GRACE DE DIEU:

VALENTINE, MARCHAND D'EPICERIES ET LIQUEURS.'

In all these churches there are little chapels around the walls, dedicated to the different saints, with contribution-boxes at the entrance, labelled in French and Dutch, '_Ici on offre à St. Roch, patron contre maladies contagieuse_.' '_Ici on offre à St. Antoine patron contre_;' something else, I forget what. '_Ici on offre à Notre Dame des doleurs aux pieds de la croix_;' and so on.

The next curiosity is the Hotel de Ville, a very large and curious old building, with a tower after the model of that of Babel. It was in this edifice that the Emperor Charles V. signed his abdication.

The beautiful palace built for the Prince of Orange, was just completed and furnished, when the revolution of 1830 broke out. Leopold, it seems, is too honorable and conscientious to use it, so that it is kept as a show-place. The interior is superb. It is a small edifice, comparatively, but a perfect gem of its kind. Visitors are required to put on cloth slippers, and slide, not walk, over the floors of polished oak. In some of the rooms, the walls are of variegated marble; others are covered with the richest satin damask. There is a fine collection of choice paintings by Rubens, etc., in this palace. They showed me also, in the stable, the state-carriage of the Prince of Orange, which he had not time to save when he lost Belgium.

In the king's palace the furniture is rather plain, and somewhat the worse for wear. As their majesties are at present 'absent from home,' I was permitted to invade the sanctity even of the private apartments. Some of the halls are very large, particularly the 'Salle à Manger.'

* * * * *

ANTWERP, 18TH.--At two o'clock, or an hour and a half ago, I was in Brussels, twenty-four miles distant. The flight was not in a balloon, or in a 'bateau à vapeur,' but in the car of the '_Le Chemin de Fer_;' for be it known, the yankee notions are spreading so far, that there are two rail-roads, of twenty-four and sixty miles, actually in operation on the continent of Europe; and moreover, there are three or four more contemplated, or commenced, viz: From Frankfort, first to Ostend, the port of Belgium; second, to Hamburgh; third, to Berlin; fourth, to Basle, in Switzerland; and from Vienna to Trieste and Milan. Verily, the tour of Europe will be no such great affair, 'when such things be.' It will lose all its romance; and the book-making tourist's 'occupation' will be 'gone' for ever! It's lucky _I_ came before a 'consummation so devoutly to be wished.'

The low countries are, of course, well adapted for rail-roads and canals. There is scarcely an elevation of six feet on the whole course from Brussels to _Anvers_.[14] This rail-road is under excellent regulations. The train consisted of fifteen cars, part of which were open; and the fare was only about twenty-five cents. You may breakfast in Brussels, go to Antwerp to church, and return to Brussels before dinner, with the greatest ease. I had seen the opening ceremonies of a Catholic holy-day, at the church of St. Michael, in the capital, and now I have been to see them finished in the cathedral of Antwerp. I went into this grand temple just at sunset, when they were performing Te Deum on the immense organ, accompanied by a large vocal choir; and nearly thirty persons in gorgeous robes were officiating around the altar. This is one of the largest churches in the world. The spire is far-famed for its immense height and graceful design. Among the gems of art to be seen in the interior, is the celebrated chêf d'oeuvre of Rubens, the Descent from the Cross.

I walked out this evening to the _citadelle_ which sustained, under Gen. CHASSE, the terrible siege of the French, in 1832.[15] It is a mile in circumference, and is enclosed by five bastions. The walls and the houses in the vicinity yet bear sad traces of the bombardment. During the siege, which lasted a month, including ten days of incessant cannonading, sixty-three thousand cannon balls were fired by the French into the citadel, and often no less than a dozen bombs were seen in the air at once. The interior of the fortress, and several warehouses near by, were reduced to a heap of ruins, before the resolute Dutch general surrendered. Such an affair is more in keeping with the days of Louis XIV., than with our own.

The diplomatists have not yet settled matters amicably between Holland and Belgium. King William and several of the despotic powers refuse to recognise Belgium's independence, and there is little or no intercourse between the two countries. Travellers are not permitted to enter Holland from this side, without special permission from his Dutch majesty, for a Belgian passport is good for nothing. Leopold, _le premier_, may thank his stars if he continues secure on the throne he acquired so easily; for there is apparently much discontent among the people, especially the trading classes, who feel the loss of the market for their goods at the Dutch sea-ports. The Antwerpers, at least, are decidedly inclined towards Holland.

Antwerp, which in the sixteenth century was one of the most important commercial places in the world, has long been on the decline. It once contained more than two hundred thousand inhabitants--now, scarcely sixty thousand; and it is said there are no less than eight hundred houses at present tenantless. Its docks, once crowded with vessels, laden with the wealth of the Indies, are now almost deserted; and the streets are strangely quiet, for a place even of its present size.

The chief curiosities are the churches, for which Antwerp is renowned. But I have already inflicted enough of this topic upon you, and the Antwerp churches are much like those I have written about, save that they are yet more rich and profuse in their decorations. Those of St. Jacques, St. Paul, and the Jesuits, are the principal. Superb altars, and pillars of the finest marble, statues and paintings, in every variety, are to be seen in them. In St. Jacques, I stood on the tomb of Rubens, who was a native of Antwerp, and of a patrician family. Over his monument is a fine picture, by himself, of his wife and children. In the church-yard of St. Paul's is a fearfully vivid representation of Mount Calvary, the crucifixion and entombment of Christ, and of purgatory! While gazing at the lofty tower of the Cathedral, I was accosted by a cicerone: 'Voulez vous mounter?' 'Combien demandez vous?' 'Deux francs.' 'Trop beaucoup?' 'Oui, Monsieur; mais tres belle vue; magnifique; vous pouver voir Bruxelles.' 'Eh bien, je veux mounter.' This is the way they get one's francs away; for, as the book says, the Belgian lions must be fed as well as others. The view is certainly very extensive, though Brussels, I must say, was rather indistinct. But the Tower of Malines, or Mechlin, (that famous place for lace,) was very conspicuous, though twelve miles off. The prospects over such a country as Belgium are more extensive than varied. Antwerp is situated near the mouth of the Scheld, and the windings of the river may be seen for several miles toward Ghent and the sea-board. The tops of the houses in the city are mostly covered with red tiles.

In the tower, I saw a chime of no less than forty-six bells, and was shown the operation of winding the clock, with a weight of one thousand pounds attached. The large bell, meanwhile, struck eleven, and all the rest followed like dutiful children. Somewhat of a sound they made, sure enough! Chimes originated in this country, and all the churches have them, playing at concert every half hour. This tower is ascended by six hundred and twenty-six steps. I went to the very top, thinking of some one's exclamation at the cathedral of Cologne, 'What will not man achieve!'

From thence, made a call at Ruben's house, which still remains, and then looked in at the Museum, where are three hundred 'tableaux,' comprising eighteen pictures by Rubens, and six by Van Dyck. In the garden adjoining, is a bronze statue of Mary of Burgundy, on her tomb.

* * * * *

GHENT, (or GAND,) Sept 19.--His majesty of Holland not seeing fit to admit me into his dominions, from his late rebellious territory of Belgium, the alternative was to cross over Flanders, by Ghent and Bruges, to Ostend, and there embark, instead of at Rotterdam, for London. A ferry-boat took passengers over the Scheld to the 'Tête de Flandre,' where the diligence was in waiting. We 'niggled' over a flat, fertile country, at the five-mile pace, seeing nothing very strange until nine P. M., when we passed through a long village of one-story houses, rattled over an excellent stone-bridge, and found ourselves in the worthy old town of Ghent, or rather Gand; but if the people _are_ ganders, they have shown some wisdom, nevertheless, in making so many nice, large, open squares, in their respectable city.

* * * * *

OSTEND, 20TH.--This morning was to be my last on the continent. I rose at six from my last _coucher_, in the fifth story, took my last breakfast in the _salle à manger_, made my last visit to cathedrals, paid my bill at the Hotel de Vienne, and took my diligence seat for the last time. The last trunk was placed on the top, the last passenger took his place, the three lazy horses were affixed, the postillion mounted, the diligence rumbled forward, crossed two or three spacious squares, and as many bridges, (for the river or canals pass in several places through the town,) entered the great archway under the ramparts, and proceeded with slow and stately step toward Bruges. The whole of the road is broad, well paved, lined with rows of elms and poplars, and for several miles keeps along the banks of the broad canal connecting Ghent with Bruges; and so level is the soil, that the towers of Ghent were in full view for six miles.

Bruges, or Brugge, is a beautiful town, replete with reminiscences of the Counts of Flanders; yet it is far from being what it once was, in wealth and importance. Like Antwerp, there is an unnatural stillness in the streets; you would almost think an epidemic had depopulated them. And yet there are many handsome private dwellings, and many wealthy people in Bruges. It has also a considerable number of English residents.

Ostend is dull enough. The harbor is bad, not admitting large vessels, except at high tide; otherwise, this place would improve rapidly; for, save Antwerp and Dunkirk, it is the only sea-port of Belgium. When the rail-road to Brussels is finished, Ostend will begin to look up. The Belgians have always been a manufacturing rather than a commercial people; but now they are cut off from exporting their goods from the ports of Holland, they must necessarily build up a commerce of their own. They are now engaged in improving the harbor, etc., of Ostend.

As an evidence of the discontent caused by the depression of trade since the revolution, it is said Leopold was grossly insulted by the people of Ghent, about a year since. He was on a visit there, and was going to the theatre; but the Ganders hired all the best boxes, and locked them up! The Ostenders, however, are more loyal. The king and queen were greeted at the theatre here, a few evenings since, with a poetical address. The queen is here now; but her consort has gone to England to negotiate, as the papers say, for the Princess Victoria, in behalf of his nephew. Whether he or his _beloved_ cousin of Orange will succeed, yet remains a problem.

Well--Bologne was the Alpha, and now, after travelling two thousand miles, the Omega of my continental tour. To imitate the lofty style of Chateaubriand's preface to his memoirs: I have been solitary in crowded cities, and in the recesses of the Highlands of Scotland, and the Alps of Switzerland; I have promenaded the Regent-street of London, and the Boulevards of Paris; the parks of Brussels, the Canongate of Edinburgh, the ramparts of Stirling and Geneva; sailed on Loch Katrine and Lake Leman, on Loch Lomond and 'fair Zurich's waters;' slept on the Great St. Bernard, and by the side of Lock Achray. I have gazed on magnificent panoramas of cities, mountains, lakes, valleys, from the summits of the Trosachs and the Rhigi, from St. Paul's and Notre Dame, from the towers of Antwerp, and Edinburgh, of Stirling and Windsor. I have sailed on the Tay and the Rhine, the Clyde, the Thames, the Rhone, the Seine; scaled rocky heights on the Swiss mule and the Highland pony; climbed to the sources of glaciers, water-falls, and the Frozen Sea. I have been in the princely halls of Windsor and Versailles, of Warwick, Scone, and Holyrood; the Louvre, Tuilleries, and Luxembourg; rambled amidst the ruins of Melrose and Kenilworth; of Dryburgh and the Drachenfels. I have heard the 'loud anthem' in the splendid temples of York and Antwerp, Westminster and Notre Dame, St. Paul's and Cologne. I have stood over the ashes of Shakspeare and of Scott; of the poets and heroes of England and France. I have gazed on the Works of Raphael and Angelo, of Reynolds and Rubens, of Flaxman and Canova. My hand has been in Rob Roy's purse, and on the skull of Charlemagne; on Bonaparte's pistols, and Hofer's blunderbuss; on the needle-work of the Queen of Scots, and the school compositions of the great Elizabeth; on the crown of the Spanish Isabella, and the spear of Guy, Earl of Warwick! I have traversed the battle fields of Bannockburn and of Morat, of Leipsic and of Waterloo. I have seen men and women of all grades, from the monarch to the chimney-sweep; kings, queens, princes, heirs apparent, nobles and duchesses; and I have seen Daniel O'Connell! I have been preached to by the plain presbyters of Scotland, and the portly bishops of England; and heard mass in the convent in sight of Italy, and in the gorgeous cathedrals of Belgium. I have seen wretchedness and magnificence in the widest extremes. I have been dazzled by the splendors of royalty, and have shuddered at the misery of royalty's subjects. In short, (for I am giving you a pretty specimen of egotism,) I have seen much, very much, to admire; much that we of the 'New World' might imitate with advantage, and more still to make me better satisfied than ever that we are, on the whole, or ought to be, the happiest people in the world. Let us but pay a little more attention to our _manners_, (for they certainly _may_ be much improved,) and let us check the spirit of lawless and fanatical agrarianism, which has shown itself to be already dangerous to our liberties and prosperity, and we may with conscious pride take our station first among the nations of the earth. Yes, my dear ----, I now feel more than ever, that

'Midst pleasures and palaces though I may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!'

FOOTNOTES:

[11] Report on the State of Public Education in Prussia, etc. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM.

[12] Among them are, the point of the nail with which Christ was pierced on the cross; a piece of the identical cross; the leathern girdle, and a piece of the winding-sheet of Christ; morceaux of the hair of John the Baptist; of the chain with which St. Peter was bound; of the sponge on which they gave vinegar to Christ; a tooth of St. Thomas; the winding-sheet of the Virgin; beside relics of Saints innumerable. These are all printed in a book, and of course they must be true! But the Charlemagne relics you will not question. There are his hunting-horn, (an elephant's tusk,) a piece of his arm, and his leg; his coronation-sword; and to _crown_ all, the skull of the emperor himself, taken from the tomb, and preserved in a brazen casque. And so I have actually handled the skull of this redoutable hero and warrior, the ruler of Europe one thousand years ago!

[13] Classic ground, again. 'Quentin Durward' escorted the ladies of Croye on the same side of the river.

[14] The French and German names of several places are puzzling--as for instance: Aix la Chapelle, _Aachen_; Liege, _Lutchen_; Mayence, _Mentz_; Ghent, _Gand_; Munich, _Munchen_; Antwerp, _Anvers_. The coins, too, of the various states, are a great annoyance. None but French and English gold, and five-franc pieces, are universally current. The Swiss _batzen_ will not pass in Germany, nor the Prussian _kreutzers_, _groschen_, _florins_ or _thalers_, in Belgium. Each state, duchy, and canton, has a different currency.

[15] See KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE for February, 1833, for a full account of this memorable siege, and a spirited portrait of its brave hero, one of the race of those from whom sprang the genuine KNICKERBOCKERS.

LITERARY NOTICES.

ERNEST MALTRAVERS. By the author of 'Pelham,' 'Eugene Aram,'
'Rienzi,' etc. In two volumes, 12mo. pp. 411. New-York: HARPER
AND BROTHERS.

THIS novel is but half finished. At the conclusion of the second volume, Mr. Bulwer remarks: 'Here ends the first portion of this work; it ends with what, though rare in novels, is common in human life; the affliction of the good, the triumph of the unprincipled. Ernest Maltravers, a lonely wanderer, disgusted with the world, blighted prematurely in a useful and glorious ambition; 'remote, unfriendly, melancholy;' Lumley Ferrers, prosperous and elated; life smiling before him; rising in the councils of the proudest and perhaps the wisest of the European nations, and wrapped in a hardy stoicism of levity and selfishness, that not only defied grief, but silenced conscience. If the reader be interested in what remains--if he desire to know more of the various characters which have breathed and moved throughout this history--he soon will be enabled to gratify his curiosity, and complete what the author believes to be a faithful survey of the Philosophy of Human Life.'

Such is the author's apology for one of the most dangerous and seductive books which it has ever been our fortune to read. Let us examine its plan. Alice Darvil, a beautiful child of nature, wholly uneducated and perfectly innocent, saves the life of Ernest Maltravers, an English graduate of a German university, who had sought shelter at her father's cottage. The murderous and revengeful barbarity of the father compels the daughter to desert him, and she is immediately thrown in the way of the student. Impelled by gratitude and pity, Maltravers shelters the destitute beauty, takes her to a country-seat, which he purchases on purpose, teaches her music, elevates her benighted and earthward mind to heaven, falls in love with, and seduces her! The father of Alice goes on from crime to crime, till his burglaries extend to the cottage of Maltravers' mistress, and his own child, who, in the temporary absence of her lover, is carried away beyond his protection. Maltravers returns, misses his Alice, grows melancholy, visits Paris in company with an impertinent and selfish acquaintance, Lumley Ferrers, falls in love with another man's wife, is rejected by her, quits Paris in disgust, goes to Italy, forms an affectionate, platonic attachment for another married lady, and then returns to London. In the meanwhile, Alice flies from her father a second time, with Maltravers' child at her breast. She seeks the cottage-scene of her early and unsophisticated enjoyments, finds it occupied by other tenants, and is finally thrown on the fostering protection of a saint-like banker, who makes her Mrs. Templeton.

While the foregoing events are taking place, Maltravers falls in love again, and as he is on his knees, kissing the hand of his mistress, Alice, who happens to be in the next room, enters, is heart broken, goes away and gets married, as aforesaid. Among other important characters now introduced, is the Lady Florence Lascelles, a great beauty, and a greater fortune, who scorns all the fascinations of rank, and falls so in love with Maltravers, that she writes to him ardently and anonymously. But as other beauties sometimes are, this one, though her whole soul is filled with Maltravers, is also a coquette, and she gains the affections of poor Cæsarini, who is on a visit to London, in the desperate adventure of getting fame for poetry. Maltravers is flattered into a pseudo attachment for Lady Florence, which ripens into love. This excites the madness of Cæsarini, and the hatred of Lumley Ferrers, who, as cousin of the lady, had been led to believe that his own pretensions might be advanced in that quarter. Lumley now copies Iago, and makes use of Cæsarini as his Cassio, who becomes instrumental in effecting a break in the love-chain of Maltravers and Lady Florence. The latter sickens, and dies of a broken heart. Alice is made a widow, after having been made a lady, and Lumley Ferrers inherits her husband's title. The daughter of Maltravers and Alice is betrothed to his worst enemy, while the Cassio of the drama goes mad. Such is the state of things at the conclusion of the second volume, which suggests the explanation by the author, already quoted.

In reviewing this novel, we are struck with the consummate power of the writer. To an imagination raised to the very focal-point of burning, Mr. Bulwer unites the most penetrating intuition of those psychological relations, which are comprehended by master-spirits alone. The conceptions of his mind are invested by a transparent robe of spirituality, through which they are mellowed and disguised, like the beautiful time-stricken edifices in the gold-dust atmosphere of Italy. A manifestation of this power is one of the strongest characteristics of genius; but it serves to veil deformities and disarm criticism. We are spell-bound while gazing on his creations. We are so fascinated by the enchantment, that we cannot be fastidious if we would. The true and the false are mysteriously blended together; and, as in every distortion of the natural, we are led, by a sort of metaphysical mirage, to be captivated more by misrepresentation than by truth. Ernest Maltravers is certainly a brilliant production. No other than Mr. Bulwer could have written it. It is full of passionate beauty; it is glowing with ardent aspirations for the beau ideal. It contains many just reflections on human conduct, and many valuable hints on education. We are willing to concede all this, and more. But its faults are too glaring to be passed over, for they are the premeditated faults of a skilful designer, who with an insincere spirit, would have the reader imagine them to be out-shadowings of his own nature, the very portraiture of his humanity.

We are not disposed to be hypercritical with Mr. Bulwer's writings; but we can no longer concede that which we have heretofore claimed for him, a purpose to hold up to the world the rewards of virtue and the consequences of vice. On the contrary, the tendency of his morality seems to be, that we are the victims of destiny, and that circumstances alone determine the phases of character, and prescribe the paths of virtue and vice. He attacks the sanctity of marriage with unholy zeal. In 'Ernest Maltravers' he inculcates the principle that illicit love may in certain cases be innocent, and that where true affection is, the bond of matrimony is unavailing. His morality has sometimes the coldness of moonlight, but seldom the radiance and the warmth of the sun; and it is owing to the separation of the affections from the understanding, the disunion of Love and Truth in his nature, that Mr. Bulwer delights in the hollow and unsatisfactory fascinations of his intellect, and is led astray by his self-hood to despise the religion of the heart. With all his genius, he is wide from the path of greatness. The deep well of German metaphysics, at which he has drunk so largely, may invigorate the mind and mystify the imagination; but the logical acumen which it imparts, does not direct to usefulness, nor lead to truth; and the discursive powers which range through its suggested labyrinths, come back at last to the goal they started from, weary and disgusted with unavailing efforts after good.

It is a truth, inseparable from the relative condition of man, that he could not possibly have had an idea of God, unless it had been revealed to him. After a revelation, we find in nature concurrent proof of his existence; but by a law of mental action, we transfer the truth derived from the revelation to the evidence which is around us, and flatter ourselves that we reason _à priori_ from this source. Mr. Bulwer has a glimpse of this great truth, and only a glimpse; for in the work under notice, he inculcates the sophism that the idea of the Creator could not arise in an uneducated mind. He does not perceive, that under the divine dispensations manifested in the Word, a revelation has already taken place, which is reflected from the face of nature; and that it is impossible for one, in this advanced state of man, not to read the record of the divine creation--not to mention the extreme improbability, that a child of fifteen should never have heard the name of God, when it is oftener on the lips of the uneducated than on those of the refined, though abused and taken in vain.