LIEGE.
Liege is quite metamorphosed—revolutionised—or, more properly speaking, Cockrellized—within the last twenty years. In times of war, it presented a picture of peace—and now, in times of peace, it exhibits the bustle of war. It is no longer the quiet abode of burghers, as in the days of Quentin Durward! In every direction you observe tall chimnies belching forth volumes of dense smoke—forges roaring—steam-engines sobbing hammers clattering—and files grating—all in the preparation and construction of various kinds of destructive weapons, from a 42-pounder to a pitchfork! Liege, in fact, is now the Brumagem of Belgium, and can rival the great British manufactory of metals in no small degree. Musket-barrels can be procured at Liege for three shillings each! Let England look to her corn-laws! The “factory system” has not greatly improved the manners, habits, or morals of Liege. Those who have not visited this place for ten or fifteen years are astonished at the difference among the lower order of the people.
The country around Liege, and between that city and Aix and Spa, is magnificent—equal in beauty, cultivation, and fertility, to the finest parts of Devonshire—or indeed of any other shire in England. Unlike France and many parts of the Continent, the country here is spangled with handsome villas and neat cottages in every direction.
CHAUDE FONTAINE.
About six miles from Liege, on the road to Spa, most beautifully situate, lies the little warm spring of the above name. The waters are limpid, inodorous, and tasteless. The temperature is 90½° of Fahrenheit. The specific gravity is that of common water. It contains small quantities of carbonic, sulphuric, and muriatic acid, and also some lime. One hundred pints of this spring yielded 240 grains of saline matters—of which 88 were common salt—91 carbonate of lime—14 sulphate of lime—15 muriate of magnesia—12 alumine—and 15 silice. They are, therefore, very analogous to the waters of Pfeffers, Wildbad, and Schlangenbad—and may be used for the same purposes as their more celebrated contemporaries. They may be reached in nine or ten hours from Ostende, by the rail-road. A young lady from England, who bathed in these waters once, and sometimes twice a day, remarked that she always “felt like eel” after leaving them, and throughout the same day. I do not exactly know what the “eel-feel” is, but I can easily believe that it is not precisely that which the eel itself experiences when it changes its mud-bath for the hands of the cook.
SPA.
“Heureux qui s’ecartant des sentiers d’ici bas,
A l’ombre du desert allant cacher ses pas.”