Liege, September 16.—Last evening I reconnoitred the town of Aix la Chapelle, heard two acts of the 'Marriage of Figaro' admirably sung in the Grecian Opera-House, and then stepped into the 'Schnell-Post.' On the frontiers of Belgium, about midnight, we were stopped at a 'Bureau de Police,' our luggage was all taken off and searched, and our passports examined, during which operations we all 'kept our patience,' save a poor Frenchman, who had to pay duty on a couple of boxes of cologne, snugly stowed in his trunk. After rewarding the worthy gentlemen for their politeness, we were suffered to proceed.
Liege, you will recollect, beside being famous in history, was the scene of the tragedy so vividly pictured in 'Quentin Durward,' the murder of the bishop by the 'Wild Boar of Ardennes.' The bishop's palace was a short distance from the town, but no traces of it remain. His city palace, (noted for its eccentric architecture, each of the interior pillars being in a different style,) is now used as a market-house. Liege is built on both sides of the river Meuse. It is quite a manufacturing place, as well as lively and pleasant, and seems to be regaining its former importance. The shop-windows present a really brilliant display of merchandise, of every description. Two of the modern streets, strange to say, are well paved, and have sidewalks four feet wide; an unusual phenomenon on the continent. In the course of my ramble, I dropped into three or four churches, for the churches in these countries are open at all times; and they have abundant attraction, at least in painting, sculpture, architecture, and music; in short, they are museums of the fine arts. The prevalence of superstition among the good people seems strange in this 'enlightened age;' and yet on the whole, we cannot wonder at it, if the proverb be true that 'Ignorance is the mother of Devotion.' One of the printed notices of holy days, etc., in honor of the virgin and the saints, commences on this wise: 'Marie le Mère de Dieu, est dignes de notre homage,' etc.
Namur, 16.—The ride from Liege to this place (forty miles,) along the banks of the Meuse, was delightful.[13] The scenery, if not pittoresque, in the Frenchman's sense, is at least beautiful. There was a very perceptible difference in the diligences on leaving the Prussian dominions; the Belgian vehicle being large, clumsy, heavy-loaded, and drawn by three miserable, creeping compounds of skin and bones. On leaving Liege, we passed several close-looking, high-walled convents and nunneries in the environs. There was little else to notice during the journey, except the boats on the Meuse, drawn up by horses; and the cathedral and walls of Huy, the half-way town. In approaching Namur, the road makes a broad circuit, and enters the gate on the Brussels side, giving the traveller an imposing view of the fortifications on the heights overlooking the town. It was late in the evening, when the diligence set us down near the Hotel de Hollande, in which I am now snugly disposed of, a solitary guest.
Brussels, 17th.—I was on the top of the diligence this morning at six, for another ride of thirty-six miles to the capital of Belgium, over the field of Waterloo. The only village on the route worth mentioning is Genappe. At noon we came in sight of a large mound, in the form of a pyramid, surmounted by a figure of an animal. It proved to be the Belgic lion-monument, commemorating the great victory of the allies. We soon came up to, and passed over the centre of, the battle-field, our conducteur meanwhile pointing out the various localities which he doubtless has often had occasion to do before: 'Le Maison ou Napoleon logé.' 'Wellington et Blucher.' A tablet over the door of the cottage explained: 'La belle Alliance. Recontre des Generaux Wellington et Blucher dans la bataille memorable de Juin 18, 1815.' On the right of the road, 'L'armie Prusse;' farther on, 'L'armie Anglais;' on the left, 'L'armie Française.' We had now come where the fight raged thickest, at present marked only by the monuments to the more distinguished victims. The field is smaller than I supposed. Those great armies must have been necessarily in close contact. This is the spot, then, where, at the expense of the lives of twenty thousand men, the mastership not only of France but of all Europe was decided.
'And here I stand upon the place of skulls,
The grave of France—the deadly Waterloo!'
And here, where on that dreadful night, the groans of the wounded and dying went up to heaven, calling aloud for retribution on their ambitious fellow man, who sought, at whatever cost, to
'Get the start of the majestic world,
And bear the palm alone;'
here you now see only the peaceful labors of the peasant women, planting their flax and potatoes over the graves of the slaughtered, which scarcely have a 'stone to tell where they lie,' or to remind you of the stirring scenes of the night when the gayety of the ball at Brussels was changed to anxious terror, by the cry of 'The foe! they come!—they come!'