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A KING'S TOUR.

BELGIUM AND OLD BRABANT.

THE Belgian Correspondent of the 'Times' has lately given us some pleasant sketches of fêtes in Brussels, Bruges, &c., which bring the old towns before us in the light of mediaval splendour. Quaint architecture and gorgeous costume have lent their accessories to processions which have pleased alike King Leopold and his belted burgomasters, pretty maidens, and matrons of "beautifully serene faces," as Metzu the painter hath it ; while brilliant cuirassiers and sunburnt peasants in blue blouses, ladies en grande toilette, and officials civil and ecclesiastic en grande tenue, many of them unmistakeably stamped with the aristocracy of old Spain, make up the show-the Grande Place at Bruges offering one great centre of attraction. For, except as head quarters of court and garrisons, Brussels scarcely holds the decided position of a metropolis. The king too seldom stays there. His Majesty prefers his retreat at Lacken, under the shadow almost of the ancient edifice in which lies his dead wife, whom his people loved as a queen, and reverence as a saint. There, in his garden or his library, with his charming daughter, whom he has named Charlotte after our Princess, and busied in directing the occupations of his younger son, he dwells in comparative seclusion, emerging now and then for a ceremonial at the Chambers, a royal reception, or a progress through his little kingdom.

King Leopold, having kept his head above water amid the wreck of many kingdoms, has now, after the fashion of our own "silver wedding" jubilee in England, just celebrated the auspicious anniversary of a twenty-five years' reign, by visiting the chief cities of Belgium, each vying with the other in welcoming him after its own joyous and picturesque fashion.

Now among those who read of this progress, and its processions in honor of the institutions of the order of the Golden Fleece, or of the proud record of the Battle of the Spurs, of the bright array of archers, and

"goodlie companies" of wool staplers and tisserands, &c., we take it to be a question whether many of them be not sorely puzzled over such descriptions, charmed as they may be with the glowing pictures of the" Halls of Light in Brussels," or of the King on his scarlet estrade at Bruges; but we, who have been at such fêtes, see it all so vividly, that verily as we read we listen for the chimes of Bruges in the "belfry old and brown," expecting them to clang out their record of the silent march of time.

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Many among us yet remember the revolution of 1830, and the elevation of King Leopold, which called forth the invidious remark of the Emperor of Russia, that "there never was a crown tumbled into a gutter, without a Coburg being by to pick it up"-. it was the Emperor's connexion with Holland that made him so bitterbut too many of our friends, we suspect, are not au courant of, or not up to our correspondent's" meaning when he alludes to the government of Belgium as one of the oldest of modern constitutions. So entangled through some centuries were the political interests of Brabant with those of Austria, France, and Spain, by certain royal intermarriages; so bitter the religious feuds between Holland and the Spanish Netherlands; so deadly the wars from the days of the Burgundian Dukes to those of our own Marlborough, that people were confused at the very name of Belgium when King Leopold mounted a throne there, and Holland, by losing Antwerp, was severed from her old relations, and became a separate kingdom. Those who travel now-a-days have neither time nor inclination to study a question which they consider mere matter of history, and yet linger with curiosity and interest over the footmarks of Austria's iron heel, and the fiery track of Spain, to say nothing of the tramp of modern revolutions. Without, then, affecting to plunge into the abyss of archæological research, in which some are apt to lose their depth, we take leave just to glance at

the story of the "first beginning" of this little kingdom, which, sooth to say, reads somewhat like a fairy tale of an ogre or a genie, but which is certainly not to be despised as fabulous.

Know, then, that in the archives of Antwerp there is a grave record, dating from the first century of the Christian era, setting forth how Antigone, a Russian giant, established himself on the banks of the Scheldt, where, from his "osier castle," or "fortress," he proclaimed himself lord of the river, levying tribute from every fishing vessel that passed his haunt, and cutting off the right hand of such as refused him their allegiance. But when the Romans came, they named one Silvius Brabo governor of Antwerp, and this " Giant Killer," with "only seven young archers," saith the record, "destroying Antigone, peace was established," and the little fishing hamlet, with its jetty, where the fishers mended their nets and the women drew water from the riverhence the name Aan-het-werpen (go to the wharf or jetty)-rose at last to be one of the first commercial cities in the world, where the merchants of Lombardy and Spain outrivalled in magnificence those Dutch capitalists, whose trade extended to the Indian seas. The "Giant" was no doubt some man with a strong head and stout arm, who by his cunning and courage mystified and frightened the poor fishers of the Scheldt.

Thus the strategy and daring of Silvius Brabo laid the foundations of Brabant. Already the Roman Eagles had been planted at Namur, but commerce carried the day eventually, and Ghent and other cities which we shall presently name, soon vied with Antwerp in wealth and splendour.

Further points in history will come out as we proceed through modern Belgium, following the king pretty closely in his progress; that progress which has a greater end in view than mere fêtes, though these, as illustrations of the past, are not without their significance to the sovereign of the present day.

Brussels, so long the residence of the family of Nassau, has in a measure grown indifferent to ancient traditions, political ones at least. Her processions are essentially military, whether they be in honor of a royal bride or a "miraculous virgin."

The people from circumstances think more of their martyrs of the revolution of 1830 than of the Duc d'Albe's victims; and those marvellous legends which the Brugeois reverence (whereof, by the way, an old Belgian writer remarks, "no one can doubt but that the church and sensible people disapprove of such fancies") are only to be found in the bye streets of Brussels, where musty book stalls and old curiosity shops may be ransacked by antiquarians and polemical essayists to their hearts' content.

There, where the haughty merchants of Lombardy once dwelt, and watched the rich argosies floating by the quays, all is now dirt and squalor; and Superstition holds her reign, represented by revolting images arrayed in filthy garments. We were one evening loitering on a bridge over a canal where certain remains of exquisite architecture made a picture in the sunset's glow, when two young soldiers stopped before a kind of penthouse, in which was a ghastly group of the virgin Mary and her dead son streaming with blood; they burst into a shout of laughter; a poor old woman had made a shrine for herself there with a wretched taper in a paper sconce; she looked up meekly from her dreamy vespers, and waited patiently till the ribald laugh died away. We were sorry for her in every sense!

Still the glories of the Grande Place at Brussels are by no means departed, though this is no longer, as in the sixteenth century, the aristocratic quarter of the town. During the fêtes of 1851, we saw the Hotel de Ville there lit up as if by magic, and embodying the idea of a vast casket framed in gold and studded with gems. But horrible memories are connected with this part of Brussels. Here, though Philip the Second's sway began with a tournament, it closed with one of those Auto da Fés which so fully interpreted the spirit of the inquisition, and roused the knights of the Golden Fleece to remonstrance, or, as the Duc d'Albe termed it, "sedition." It was then that Ghent sent forth her preachers into Holland, on which Spain revenged herself by a fearful parade of the condemned in Brussels. Bloodcoloured standards headed these cortèges. Tolling bells mingled with

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the doleful chant of choristers, and the unhappy victims were made objects of mockery in their yellow garments, studded with devils painted black; a paper crown, surmounted by a human figure in flames, completed this infernal masquerade, and the poor wretch's mouth was gagged lest his cries should awaken the compassion of the multitude. When we add that these executions were reserved for grand fêtes, innumerable victims being collected to swell the triumph of the Auto-da-Fé at which the king assisted in person, taking his place below that of the Grand Inquisitor, and bareheaded, we may feel thankful, indeed, when read of King Leopold's royal progress through his dominions, and rejoice with the Belgians that the "oldest of modern constitutions," however strong may be her national instincts in favor of ancient traditions, is yet content to work under a less exciting, but a more enlightened and we hope a more enduring government. If there are no Charlemagnes, or bold Dukes of Burgundy in the Brabant of the present day, thank God, there are no viceroys from Spain, and no inquisition; and perhaps not the least remarkable and pleasing point in the present page of Belgian history, is the perfect harmony existing between a king and his people whose forms of faith are so utterly opposed to each other.

To do Brussels justice, it must not be forgotten that, it was by her manufactures she first attracted the notice of the world; Bruges, however, soon surpassed her, and was eventually selected as the permanent residence of the Counts of Flanders, whose Moorish palace forms so exquisite a feature in the architecture of the old town to this day. Thomas Colley Grattan, in his interesting tale of "The Heiress of Bruges," has made us familiar with this grand Byzantine pile-a monument of the crusading furor and with that lovely walk by the Dyver, where the Quai de Rosenthal is washed by the stream on which Gondolas were wout to glide when Spanish cavaliers serenaded Brabantian beauties. Those dark and broken casements of the Palais des Francs once were wont to blaze with light, when Burgundian dukes and Spanish governors held their banquets

there. Beyond the Quay rises the turretted roof of the Heiress's home, and one almost expects to see a light in one of the quaint windows, and a sweet face illuminated by it looking into the starry night.-Yonder, Notre Dame in stern magnificence lifts her lofty spire, and hark to the chimes in the belfry of the Halles!

"Like the psalms from some old cloister,
When the nuns sing in the choir,
And the great bell tolls among them
Like the chaunting of a friar."

It was in honor of the wealthy wool-staplers of Bruges that Philip the Good instituted the Order of the Golden Fleece, on the 10th of January, 1430, when he married Isabella of Portugal. So says history; but a chronique scandaleuse provides a pendant for the legend of our Order of the Garter, by declaring that the institution had its origin in the love which Philip bore to a lady with golden tresses. Fancy that procession in the Grande Place at Bruges nearly four hundred years ago, when four and twenty cavaliers, in scarlet robes and with chains of gold about their necks, moved in a stately procession of nobles and wealthy citizens, Philip and his bride the centre of the gorgeous crowd; while above all rose the magnificent chorus of priests and acolytes, clouds of incense overpowering the fragrant breath of flowers, and groups beautiful women looking down upon the show! Fancy, too, pictures that fair lady of the glittering locks gazing from her lattice with a scornful smile upon her lips, as the people shout in honor of the bride whom they believe to be the true heroine of the pageant. Poor frail mistress of Philip's heart! her empire ended when Isabella brought him an heir to the throne.

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One of Philip's sons and his heir was the renowned Charles the Bold, who married our Margaret of York. It was by the union of their daughter Mary with Maximilian of Austria that the latter kingdom added to its heritage the fertile and populous provinces of the Netherlands, not as Belgium is at this day, but including Holland.

Walter Scott, in his novel of "Quentin Durward," gives us a graphic picture of these times, when Louis the Eleventh sought to ally himself with

Charles the Bold by a marriage between Mary of Burgundy and his son the Dauphin; but the birth of a male heir to the Netherlands checked the wily monarch's proceedings, and Philip the Fair was unwittingly a source of future misery to Flanders by his alliance with Jeanne, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella; for under his son Charles the Fifth, the most powerful sovereign that Europe had seen since the days of Charlemagne, and one of those hateful tyrants whom history flatters,* the Brabantian provinces became "the Spanish Netherlands." Holland did not cast off the yoke till the time of Philipthe Second; but even when nominally independent, that little kingdom felt the crash of struggles which convulsed her neighbours, and she suffered consequently not a little in her commerce.

The foot-prints of the march of time are very vivid in old Bruges. She is careful not to obliterate them. She welcomes King Leopold on the very spot where Philip the Good moved among the knights of the Golden Fleece. She parades a gallant company of archers in memory of the seven champions who helped Silvius Brabo to slay the giant of the Scheldt; and exhibits with pride a little silver cup which our Queen Victoria, when she visited Belgium, presented to this said company of "Arbalêtres." If a swan be found injured on one of the canals, she has the seigneurial bird carried with due ceremony across the Grande Place, and under charge of a gend'arme, before the magisterial bench, that proper evidence may be obtained as to the cause of injury, and a certain penalty awarded; for in former days, the crime of killing a swan was visited by death, as was symbolled by representing the creature with a golden collar round its neck, the chain typifying condemnation to the galleys if convicted of wilfully hurting it. Swans are looked upon by the Brugeois as next to sacred, and we believe the law is yet unrepealed, which forbids any but nobles from keeping these birds, whose majestic beauty adds another grace to the streams fringed with linden trees, and

spanned by elegant bridges, intersecting the city. Detested even as the Spaniards were at a later period, the Brugeois retain much belonging to them that is picturesque. Those lofty gables which Napoleon would have pulled down had his career continued, form a feature in themselves and harmonize perfectly with the remains of the most elegant of costumes. The large sombrero and ample cloak seen at Belgian funerals are from Spain; but while in Bruges the humbler classes of women adopt the hooded mantle-similar in shape to the Irish, which they too got in their trading days with Spain-the Antwerpians shroud themselves in the faldh, or mantilla, the dark eyes and raven hair often completing the illusion; though we cannot always say as much for the foot and ancle.

From Spain, too, came the taste for cards and dominoes, which, with smoking, seem to be the only recreations of the men in Belgium.

But it is in their preparations for the grand triennial procession of the Holy Blood that the Brugeois put forth all their strength. In anticipation of this fête, history and pictures, sacred and profane, are searched for costume with the zeal of a London debutante at a state fancy ball. Mary of Burgundy is generally the leading character of the pageant, and is represented by some young heiress of Bruges, whose dress and jewels engage the admiration and excite the envy of the multitude. The very

anachronisms which mark the order of this procession add to its variety, and throw a quaint charm over combinations so richly colored. Here a group of Burgundians dazzles the eye, which is immediately relieved by a band of archers; and what though heathens and heathenesses may be in irreverent proximity to the twelve apostles and the four evangelists, we are soon refreshed by the sight of an arcadian crowd of shepherds and shepherdesses, waving their crooks and garlands to the merry music of a brass band. After these may walk, in graver guise, some goodly company of traders, who have scarce passed, when a proud cortège of crusaders sweeps on, to be

See too his "Cloister Life," whence, under the veil of sanctity, he watched the fiery reign of his bigot son, Philip the Second, and checked the good impulses of his sisters.

VOL. XLVIII. NO. CCLXXXV,

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succeeded probably by some grotesque masque, headed by a jester who knows well how to play his part. We would fain close our eyes on those living representatives of the Saviour and His disciples; and our ears to that operatic air from the military band that crashes out at such a moment; but we must admit, as the smart soldiers step by in their jaunty attire, that if England has the men, the French and Belgians know how to dress them.

Blended with these varied groups are the hierarchy of the church, with their accessories of reliquaires, censers, pictures and statues, over which wave embroidered banners flashing in the sun; the massive chorusses of the church ascending with the incense, and filling the air with music and fragrance.

King Leopold paid a visit to the English convent before leaving Bruges, in compliment to the British residents there. True to the character of British institutions of all denominations, the grave but elegant simplicity of this convent distinguishes it from others on the continent. Here are neither sculptures nor garlands. The sun shines through the fresco painted dome on a fine St. Francis of Murillo; and the scriptural picture of the "denial of St Peter" is a relief from the legendary art flourishing in Belgian churches.--It is the hour of vespers; a little bell rings; enter priest and acolyte; a nun glides in, and disappears as noiselessly as she came; the nave fills with visitors, you bend your head for a moment, and on lifting it discover that the doors of the penetralia have rolled back on silent hinges, and lo! a perspective which would stir a Mahommedan! A crowd of girls in white occupy that dim recess; each glossy head is almost too carefully coeffée, and a ribbon of cerulean blue marks the delicate contour of the Saxon maiden's throat, while a "dim religious light" steals over the whole and softens the tableau. Still, as we gaze on such beauty and grace, we cannot help wondering if all these white-robed creatures are lovely, or if the fairest are selected for the front ranks.

The foremost nun behind the grating might sit for a St. Catherine or St. Barbe; there is something angelic in her soft, and alas!

melancholy beauty. The girls within chaunt the responses "in a low, sweet, solemn tone"-a burst of music peals up the frescoed dome, and the rich but solitary voice of a nun vibrates through the little sanctuary. There is silence the clouds of incense roll away, our eyes close again with that enthralling emotion which beautiful music always evokes, and when aroused we believe ourselves to have been in a dream; the penetralia is a blank; the doors have closed on their noiseless hinges; darkness has succeeded the bright vision of maidens in their teens, and lovely nuns-vespers are over!

But there is in Bruges another community of the kind, more interesting perhaps from a certain veil of mystery which enshrouds it, and from the fact-easily explained by the unhealthiness of the locality in which the convent has unfortunately been placed that most of its votaries either die young or lose all appearance of health soon after entering it. The Red Nuns are of the aristocracy of Belgium; their vocation is entirely "contemplative," and thus they lead a life utterly devoid of human interests. So soon as they have taken the vows of the order, and assumed the scarlet robe in honor of the Saviour, they bid farewell for ever to their families. Never till death "unbinds the silver chain" are their visible forms brought in contact with the world. Then they are laid out, dressed in the robes and accessories of the order, with fresh flowers strewed about them, and tall tapers shedding a serene light on their fair, young faces; the gates are thrown open to the public, who are permitted to view the corpse from a distance, the chanted requiem continuing through the day. It would be in bad taste to intrude further into the penetralia of this gentle sisterhood; but we cannot refrain for relating an anecdote received from sound authority while at Bruges, and which we fear is but too true an illustration of that "English impertinence," which brings well bred and kindly mannered people into such disfavor on the continent, as too frequently deprives them of the opportunity of proving that such impertinence is the exception, not the rule, of our conduct abroad.

The Red Nuns lead a life of such strict seclusion, that except for an

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