FLIGHT THROUGH BELGIUM.
_Bruges._--On the Continent at last! How strangely look the century-old
towers, antique monuments, and quaint, narrow streets of the Flemish
cities! It is an agreeable and yet a painful sense of novelty to stand
for the first time in the midst of a people whose language and manners
are different from one's own. The old buildings around, linked with many
a stirring association of past history, gratify the glowing
anticipations with which one has looked forward to seeing them, and the
fancy is busy at work reconciling the _real_ scene with the _ideal_; but
the want of a communication with the living world about, walls one up
with a sense of loneliness he could not before have conceived. I envy
the children in the streets of Bruges their childish language.
Yesterday afternoon we came from London through the green wooded lawns
and vales of England, to Dover, which we reached at sunset, passing by a
long tunnel through the lofty Shakspeare Cliff. We had barely time
before it grew dark to ascend the cliff. The glorious coast view looked
still wilder in the gathering twilight, which soon hid from our sight
the dim hills of France. On the cliff opposite frowned the massive
battlements of the Castle, guarding the town, which lay in a nook of the
rocks below. As the Ostend boat was to leave at four in the morning, my
cousin aroused us at three, and we felt our way down stairs in the dark.
But the landlord was reluctant to part with us; we stamped and shouted
and rang bells, till the whole house was in an uproar, for the door was
double-locked, and the steamboat bell began to sound. At last he could
stand it no longer; we gave a quick utterance to our overflowing wrath,
and rushed down to the boat but a second or two before it left.
The water of the Channel was smooth as glass and as the sun rose, the
far chalky cliffs gleamed along the horizon, a belt of fire. I waved a
good-bye to Old England and then turned to see the spires of Dunkirk,
which were visible in the distance before us. On the low Belgian coast
we could see trees and steeples, resembling a mirage over the level
surface of the sea; at length, about ten o'clock, the square tower of
Ostend came in sight. The boat passed into a long muddy basin, in which
many unwieldy, red-sailed Dutch craft were lying, and stopped beside a
high pier. Here amid the confusion of three languages, an officer came
on board and took charge of our passports and luggage. As we could not
get the former for two or three hours, we did not hurry the passing of
the latter, and went on shore quite unincumbered, for a stroll about the
city, disregarding the cries of the hackney-coachmen on the pier,
"_Hotel d'Angleterre_," "_Hotel des Bains!_" and another who called out
in English, "I recommend you to the Royal Hotel, sir!"
There is little to be seen in Ostend. We wandered through long rows of
plain yellow houses, trying to read the French and low Dutch signs, and
at last came out on the wall near the sea. A soldier motioned us back as
we attempted to ascend it, and muttering some unintelligible words,
pointed to a narrow street near. Following this out of curiosity, we
crossed the moat and found ourselves on the great bathing beach. To get
out of the hands of the servants who immediately surrounded us, we
jumped into one of the little wagons and were driven out into the surf.
To be certain of fulfilling the railroad regulations, we took our seats
quarter of an hour before the time. The dark walls of Ostend soon
vanished and we were whirled rapidly over a country perfectly level, but
highly fertile and well cultivated. Occasionally there was a ditch or
row of trees, but otherwise there was no division between the fields,
and the plain stretched unbroken away into the distance. The twenty
miles to Bruges we made in forty minutes. The streets of this antique
city are narrow and crooked, and the pointed, ornamented gables of the
houses, produce a novel impression on one who has been accustomed to the
green American forests. Then there was the endless sound of wooden shoes
clattering over the rough pavements, and people talking in that most
unmusical of all languages, low Dutch. Walking at random through the
streets, we came by chance upon the Cathedral of Notre Dame. I shall
long remember my first impression of the scene within. The lofty gothic
ceiling arched far above my head and through the stained windows the
light came but dimly--it was all still, solemn and religious. A few
worshippers were kneeling in silence before some of the shrines and the
echo of my tread seemed like a profaning sound. On every side were
pictures, saints gilded shrines. A few steps removed one from the bustle
and din of the crowd to the stillness and solemnity of the holy retreat.
We learned from the guide, whom we had engaged because he spoke a few
words of English, that there was still a _treckshuyt_ line on the
canals, and that one boat leaves to-night at ten o'clock for Ghent.
Wishing to try this old Dutch method of travelling, he took us about
half a mile along the Ghent road to the canal, where a moderate sized
boat was lying. Our baggage deposited in the plainly furnished cabin, I
ran back to Bruges, although it was beginning to grow dark, to get a
sight of the belfry; for Longfellow's lines had been running through my
head all day:
"In the market place of Bruges, stands the belfry old and brown,
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town."
And having found the square, brown tower in one corner of the open
market square, we waited to hear the chimes, which are said to be the
finest in Europe. They rang out at last with a clear silvery tone, most
beautifully musical indeed. We then returned to the boat in the
twilight. We were to leave in about an hour, according to the
arrangement, but as yet there was no sound to be heard, and we were the
only tenants. However, trusting to Dutch regularity, we went to sleep in
the full confidence of awakening in Ghent.
I awoke once in the night and saw the dark branches of trees passing
before the window, but there was no perceptible sound nor motion; the
boat glided along like a dream, and we were awakened next morning by its
striking against the pier at Ghent. After paying three francs for the
whole night journey, the captain gave us a guide to the railroad
station, and as we had nearly an hour before the train left, I went to
see the Cathedral of St. Bavon. After leaving Ghent, the road passes
through a beautiful country, cultivated like a garden. The Dutch passion
for flowers is displayed in the gardens around the cottages; even every
vacant foot of ground along the railway is planted with roses and
dahlias. At Ghent, the morning being fair, we took seats in the open
cars. About noon it commenced raining and our situation was soon
anything but comfortable. My cousin had fortunately a water-proof Indian
blanket with him, which he had purchased in the "Far West," and by
wrapping this around all three of us, we kept partly dry. I was much
amused at the plight of a party of young Englishmen, who were in the
same car; one of them held a little parasol which just covered his hat,
and sent the water in streams down on his back and shoulders.
We had a misty view of Liege, through the torrents of rain, and then
dashed away into the wild, mountain scenery of the Meuse. Steep, rocky
hills, covered with pine and crowned with ruined towers, hemmed in the
winding and swollen river, and the wet, cloudy sky seemed to rest like a
canopy on their summits. Instead of threading their mazy defiles, we
plunged directly into the mountain's heart, flew over the narrow valley
on lofty and light-sprung arches, and went again into the darkness. At
Verviers, our baggage was weighed, examined and transferred, with
ourselves, to a Prussian train. There was a great deal of disputing on
the occasion. A lady, who had a dog in a large willow basket, was not
allowed to retain it, nor would they take it as baggage. The matter was
finally compromised by their sending the basket, obliging her to carry
the dog, which was none of the smallest, in her arms! The next station
bore the sign of the black eagle, and here our passports were obliged to
be given up. Advancing through long ranges of wooded hills, we saw at
length, in the dull twilight of a rainy day, the old kingly city of Aix
la Chapelle on a plain below us. After a scene at the custom-house,
where our baggage was reclaimed with tickets given at Verviers, we drove
to the _Hotel du Rhin_, and while warming our shivering limbs and drying
our damp garments, felt tempted to exclaim with the old Italian author:
"O! holy and miraculous tavern!"
The Cathedral with its lofty Gothic tower, was built by the emperor
Otho in the tenth century. It seems at present to be undergoing repairs,
for a large scaffold shut out the dome. The long hall was dim with
incense smoke as we entered, and the organ sounded through the high
arches with an effect that startled me. The windows glowed with the
forms of kings and saints, and the dusty and mouldering shrines which
rose around were colored with the light that came through. The music
pealed out like a triumphal march, sinking at times into a mournful
strain, as if it celebrated and lamented the heroes who slept below. In
the stone pavement nearly under my feet was a large square marble slab,
with words "CAROLO MAGNO." It was like a dream, to stand there on the
tomb of the mighty warrior, with the lofty arches of the Cathedral
above, filled with the sound of the divine anthem. I mused above his
ashes till the music ceased and then left the Cathedral, that nothing
might break the romantic spell associated with that crumbling pile and
the dead it covered. I have always revered the memory of Charlemagne. He
lived in a stern age, but he was in mind and heart a man, and like
Napoleon, who placed the iron crown which had lain with him centuries in
the tomb, upon his own brow, he had an Alpine grandeur of mind, which
the world was forced to acknowledge.
At noon we took the _chars-à-banc_, or second-class carriages, for fear
of rain, and continued our journey over a plain dotted with villages and
old chateaux. Two or three miles from Cologne we saw the spires of the
different churches, conspicuous among which were the unfinished towers
of the Cathedral, with the enormous crane standing as it did when they
left off building, two hundred years ago or more. On arriving, we drove
to the Bonn railway, where finding the last train did not leave for four
hours, we left our baggage and set out for the Cathedral. Of all Gothic
buildings, the plan of this is certainly the most stupendous; even ruin
as it is, it cannot fail to excite surprise and admiration. The King of
Prussia has undertaken to complete it according to the original plan,
which was lately found in the possession of a poor man, of whom it was
purchased for 40,000 florins, but he has not yet finished repairing what
is already built. The legend concerning this plan may not be known to
every one. It is related of the inventor of it, that in despair of
finding any sufficiently great, he was walking one day by the river,
sketching with his stick upon the sand, when he finally hit upon one
which pleased him so much that he exclaimed: "This shall be the plan!"
"I will show you a better one than that!" said a voice suddenly behind
him, and a certain black gentleman who figures in all German legends
stood by him, and pulled from his pocket a roll containing the present
plan of the Cathedral. The architect, amazed at its grandeur, asked an
explanation of every part. As he knew his soul was to be the price of
it, he occupied himself while the devil was explaining, in committing
its proportions carefully to memory. Having done this, he remarked that
it did not please him and he would not take it. The devil, seeing
through the cheat, exclaimed in his rage: "You may build your Cathedral
according to this plan, but you shall never finish it!" This prediction
seems likely to be verified, for though it was commenced in 1248, and
built for 250 years, only the choir and nave and one tower to half its
original height, are finished.
We visited the chapel of the eleven thousand virgins, the walls of which
are full of curious grated cells, containing their bones, and then
threaded the narrow streets of Cologne, which are quite dirty enough to
justify Coleridge's lines:
"The river Rhine, it is well known
Doth wash the city of Cologne;
But tell me nymphs, what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine!"