Well, my sheet is at an end, and my hand quite knocked up. We did get to Mons, but the roads were "effroyable." At one moment (luckily we were not in it) the carriage stuck in the mud and paused. "Shall I go? or shall I not go?" Luckily it preferred the latter, and returned to its position on 4 wheels instead of 2.
E. Stanley.
Mrs. E. Stanley to Lady Maria Stanley.
And now to return to what pleased me first: Bruges—where I first felt myself completely out of England. The buildings were so entirely unlike any I have seen before that I could have fancied myself rather walking amongst pictures than houses. The winding streets are so interesting when you do not know what new sight a new turn will present;[274] especially when, as in this case, the new sight was so satisfactory every time. Ghent is a much finer town but not near so picturesque; but we were fortunate in falling in here with a fine Catholic procession. We went to the top of the Cathedral, and as we were coming down the great bell tolled and announced the procession had begun. We almost broke our necks in our hurry to get a peep, and we did arrive at a loop-hole in time to see the whole mass of priests and procession in slow motion down the great aisle and to hear their chant. It was very fine indeed, tho' to our heretical feelings the interest lies as much in the romantic associations connected with all the Roman Catholic ceremonies as in anything better. It is not in human nature not to feel more devotion in the imposing solemnity of such a church. The "Descents from the Cross" were just put up, and with the organ playing and mass going on, and the number of female figures with their black scarfs over their heads kneeling on chairs in different parts of the Cathedral, we saw them to greater advantage than surrounded by French bonnets and other pictures in the Louvre. They are quite different to any Rubens I ever saw before; the colouring so much deeper and the figures so superior.
But no one should be allowed to enter that Cathedral without the black scarf, which makes a young face look pretty and an old one picturesque; and there were several common people gazing at the picture with as much admiration and adoration[275] painted on their faces as there probably was on ours.
At Brussels there were more pictures from the Louvre, but the Brutes had packed up the Rubens without any covering or precaution whatever, and there they are with a hole thro' one, and the other covered with mildew and stains from rain and dirt. From Ghent we travelled in two cabriolets to Brussels, which were not quite so easy or pleasant as the Canal boats; but the accommodations as far as Brussels have been really superbe. I have longed for the papers or the carpets or the marble tables in every room we have been in; and I have learned to consider dinner as a matter of great curiosity and importance, and I cannot wonder that Englishmen are not proof against the temptations of living well and so cheap. Brussels is a nice place; there appear to be so many pleasant walks and rides in all directions. The country about is so pretty, and the town (with the exception of the steep hill which you must ascend to get to the best part of it) very cheerful and agreeable looking.... Every place swarms with English; we have met four times as many English carriages and travellers as we did on our road to London.
Our weather has been very favourable. We had a cool day for walking about at Waterloo, and the next day a delightful bright sunshine to show off the Palace of Laeken to advantage. It is the place where Bonaparte intended to sleep on the 18th, and he fitted it up. It is three miles from Brussels,[276] commanding a view of the whole country and surrounded by trees and pleasure-grounds in the English style. After looking at buildings and towns so much, it was an agreeable relief to admire shady walks and fine trees. We went to the Theatre, which was execrable, but at Ghent we were very much amused with some incomparable acting.
We left Brussels yesterday morning in a Barouche and three, which is to take us to Paris. It holds us four in the inside and John on the box as nicely as we could wish and is perfectly easy. We suit each other as well in other respects as in the carriage. Donald is an excellent compagnon de voyage—full of liveliness, good humour, and curiosity, enjoying everything in the right way. He and Edward Leycester are my beaux, while E.S. does the business; which makes it much pleasanter to me than if I had only one gentleman with me. In short, we had not a difficulty till yesterday. We came by Waterloo again and picked up Lacoite to get what we could from him, and then to Charleroi, being told the road by Nivelles was impassable. The road to Charleroi was bad, and we did not arrive till 9, having had no eatable but biscuit and wine. Donald entered the hotel to enquire what we could have for dinner, and returned with the melancholy report that the woman had literally nothing, and did not know where any were to be procured, but that she would kill a hen and dress it if we liked! We sent Donald and Edward, as a forlorn hope, to see if there was another inn, and after a long search[277] they found one, whereupon the postillion found out that he had no drag-chain and could not properly descend the montagne. However, after some arguments, and my descent from the carriage, and Donald and John walking on each side the wheels with large stones ready to place before them in case they were disposed to run too fast, we arrived at the Inn at the foot of the Hill, from which issued an old woman who might have sat for Gil Blas' or Caleb Williams' old woman. When she heard where we were going, she shook her head and said she did not like to be un oiseau de mauvais augure but that the only road we could go was very nearly impassable. The people and the children in the street crowded round the carriage as if they had never seen one before, and, in short, we found that we had got into a cul-de-sac.