Good-by to Paris, for we are on the road to Brussels, in a night express train, swiftly passing through Douai and Valenciennes, harassed, bothered, and pestered at Quievran, on the frontier, where our baggage was critically inspected. Through Valenciennes, which is suggestive of lace—so is Brussels—yes, we are getting into the lace country. But don't imagine, my inexperienced traveller, that the names of these cities are pronounced, or even spelled, in our country (as they ought to be) as they are by the natives.
In Bruxelles we recognized Brussels easily enough; but who would ever have understood Malines to be what we denominate Mechlin, or have known when he reached Aix la Chapelle by the German conductor's bellowing out, "Aachen"? And I could well excuse an American friend, some days after, when we reached Antwerp, who, on being told he was at Anvers, said, "Confound your Anvers. This must be the wrong train. I started for Antwerp."
Why should not the names of foreign cities be spelled and pronounced, in English, as near like their real designation as possible? There appears to be no rule. Some are, some are not. Cöln is not a great change from Cologne, but who would recognize München for Munich, or Wien for Vienna?
We rattled through the streets of Brussels at early morning, and, passing the great market square, saw a curious sight in the side streets contiguous, in the numerous dog-teams that the country people bring their produce to market with. Old dog Tray is pretty thoroughly utilized here; for while the market square was a Babel of voices, from bare-headed and quaint-headdressed women, and curious jacketed and breeched peasants, arranging their greens, fruit, and vegetables, and clamoring with early purchasers, their teams, which filled the side streets, were taking a rest after their early journey from the country. There were stout mastiffs in little carts, harnessed complete, like horses, except blinders; some rough fellows, of the "big yellow-dog" breed, tandem; poor little curs, two abreast; small dogs, big dogs, smart dogs, and cur dogs, each attached to a miniature cart that would hold from two pecks to three bushels, according to the strength of the team; and they were standing, sitting, and lying in all the varieties of dog attitude—certainly a most comical sight. Some time afterwards, while travelling in the country, I met a fellow riding in one of these little wagons, drawn by two large dogs at quite a tolerable trot (dog trot), although they are generally used only to draw light burdens, to save the peasants' shoulders the load.
From our windows at the Hotel de l'Europe we look out upon the Place Royale, in which stands the handsome equestrian statue, in bronze, of that stout crusader, Godfrey de Bouillon, who, with the banner of the cross in one hand, and falchion aloft in the other, is, as he might have rode at the siege of Jerusalem, or at the battle of Ascalon, a spirited and martial figure, and familiar enough to us, from its reproduction in little, for mantel clocks. We visited the celebrated Hotel de Ville, a magnificent old Gothic edifice, all points and sculptures, and its central tower shooting up three hundred and sixty-four feet in height. In front of it are two finely executed statues of Counts Egmont and Horn, the Duke of Alva's victims, who perished here. A short distance from here is a little statue known as the Manikin, a curious fountain which every one goes to see on account of the natural way it plays, and which on some fête days sends forth red wine, which the common people flock in crowds to bear away, with much merriment at the source of supply.
Besides a museum of paintings in Brussels, which contained several fine pictures by Rubens, we visited a gallery of somewhat remarkable and original pictures at the residence of an artist (now deceased) named Wiertz. The subjects chosen were singular, and so was the original manner in which they were treated. One represented Napoleon in hell, surrounded by tormenting demons, with flitting visions of the horrors of war and carnage, and its victims upbraiding him; another, a huge picture of a struggle of giants—giving the best idea of giants possible, it seemed to me, outside of the children's story-books. Another picture was so contrived that the spectator peeped through a half-open door, and was startled at beholding what he supposed to be a woman with but a single garment, gathered shrinkingly around her, and gazing at him from an opposite door, which she appeared to have just shrunk behind to avoid his intrusion—a most marvellous cheat. An apparently rough sketch of a huge frog, viewed through an aperture, became the portrait of a French general. The pictures of two beautiful girls opening a rude window, and presenting a flower, were so arranged that, whatever position the spectator took, they were still facing him, and holding out their floral offerings. An aperture, like that of a cosmorama, invited you to look through, when, lo! a group, clothed in arctic costume, and one more grotesque than the rest arrests you; it is like a living face; the eyes wink; it moves! You start back, and find that by some clever arrangement of a looking-glass, you yourself have been supplying the face of the figure.
A little table, standing in the way, bears upon it an easel, some brushes, a red herring, and other incongruous things, which you suppose some careless visitors to have left, till you discover it is another of the artist's wonderful deceptions. I say wonderful, because his forte seems to have been some of the most astonishing practical jokes with brush and color that can possibly be imagined. Some would absolutely cheat the spectator, although prepared for surprises, and excite as much laughter as a well-told story; and others would have an opposite effect, and make his very hair almost stand erect with terror. One of the latter was that which represented a maniac mother, in a half-darkened room, cutting up one of her children with a butcher knife, and putting the remains into a pot boiling upon the fire. The spectator, who is held to this dreadful scene by a sort of terrible fascination, discovers that the wild woman thinks herself secure from observation, from the appearance of the apartment, the windows and even key-hole of which she has carefully covered, and that he himself is getting a view from an unobserved crevice. Although the subject is anything but a pleasant one, yet the rapid beating of the heart, the pallid countenance, and involuntary shudder with which the spectator withdraws from the terrible spectacle, is a tribute to the artist's marvellous skill.
Brussels is divided into two parts, the upper and lower city: the latter is crowded, and inhabited principally by the poorer and laboring classes, and contains many of the quaint old-fashioned Dutch-looking buildings of three centuries ago; the upper part of the city, the abode of the richer classes, contains fine, large, open squares and streets, palace gardens, &c. In one of the latter we attended a very fine instrumental concert, given by the orchestra of the Grand Opera—admission ten cents! and we found that we were now getting towards the country where good music was a drug, and we could get our fill at a very reasonable price, with the most agreeable surroundings.
The most interesting church in Brussels is the splendid Cathedral of St. Gudule, founded in 1010, the principal wonders of which are its magnificently-painted windows,—one an elaborate affair, representing the last judgment, the other various miracles and saints,—and the pulpit, which is a wondrous work of the carver's art. Upon it is a group representing the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the garden of Eden; the pulpit itself is upheld by the tree of knowledge, and high above it stands the Virgin Mary, holding the infant Jesus, who is striking at the serpent's head with the cross. The tracery of the foliage, the carving of the figures, and ornamental work are beautifully chiselled, and very effectively managed.
Having sent a trunk on before me to Brussels, I had an experience of the apparently utter disregard of time among Belgian custom-house officials; and, indeed, of that slow, methodical, won't-be-hurried, handed-down-from-our-ancestors way of transacting business, that drives an American almost to the verge of distraction.