Reader, perhaps you were never in Belgium? Haply you don’t know the physiognomy of the country? You have not its lineaments defined upon your memory, as I havethem on mine?
Three—nay four—pictures line the four-walled cell where are stored for me the records of the past.First, Eton.All in that picture is in far perspective, receding, diminutive; but freshly coloured, green, dewy, with a spring sky, piled with glittering yet showery clouds; for my childhood was not all sunshine—it had its overcast, its cold, its stormy hours.Second, X—, huge, dingy; the canvas cracked and smoked; a yellow sky, sooty clouds; no sun, no azure; the verdure of the suburbs blighted and sullied—a very dreary scene.
Third, Belgium; and I will pause before this landscape.As to the fourth, a curtain covers it, which I may hereafter withdraw, or may not, as suits my convenience and capacity.At any rate, for the present it must hang undisturbed.Belgium! name unromantic and unpoetic, yet name that whenever uttered has in my ear a sound, in my heart an echo, such as no other assemblage of syllables, however sweet or classic, can produce.Belgium! I repeat the word, now as I sit alone near midnight.It stirs my world of the past like a summons to resurrection; the graves unclose, the dead are raised; thoughts, feelings, memories that slept, are seen by me ascending from the clods—haloed most of them—but while I gaze on their vapoury forms, and strive to ascertain definitely their outline, the sound which wakened them dies, and they sink, eachand all, like a light wreath of mist, absorbed in the mould, recalled to urns, resealed in monuments.Farewell, luminous phantoms!
This is Belgium, reader.Look! don’t call the picture a flat or a dull one—it was neither flat nor dull to me when I first beheld it.When I left Ostend on a mild February morning, and found myself on the road to Brussels, nothing could look vapid to me.My sense of enjoyment possessed an edge whetted to the finest, untouched, keen, exquisite.I was young; I had good health; pleasure and I had never met; no indulgence of hers had enervated or sated one faculty of my nature.Liberty I clasped in my arms for the first time, and the influence of her smile and embrace revived my life like the sun and the west wind.Yes, at that epoch I felt like a morning traveller who doubts not that from the hill he is ascending he shall behold a glorious sunrise; what if the track be strait, steep, and stony? he sees it not; his eyes are fixed on that summit, flushed already, flushed and gilded, and having gained it he is certain of the scene beyond.He knows that the sun will face him, that his chariot is even now coming over the eastern horizon, and that the herald breeze he feels on his cheek is opening for the god’s career a clear, vast path of azure, amidst clouds soft as pearl and warm as flame.Difficulty and toil were to be my lot, but sustained by energy, drawn on by hopes as bright as vague, I deemed such a lot no hardship.I mounted now the hill in shade; there were pebbles, inequalities, briars in my path, but my eyes were fixed on the crimson peak above; my imagination was with the refulgent firmament beyond, and I thought nothing of the stones turning under my feet, or of the thorns scratching my face and hands.
I gazed often, and always with delight, from the window of thediligence (these, be it remembered, were not the days of trains and railroads).Well! and what did I see? I will tell you faithfully.Green, reedy swamps; fields fertile but flat, cultivated in patches that made them look like magnified kitchen-gardens; belts of cut trees, formal as pollard willows, skirting the horizon; narrow canals, gliding slow by the road-side; painted Flemish farmhouses; some very dirty hovels; a grey, dead sky; wet road, wet fields, wet house-tops: not a beautiful, scarcely a picturesque object met my eye along the whole route; yet to me, all was beautiful, all was more than picturesque.It continued fair so long as daylight lasted, though the moisture of many preceding damp days had sodden the whole country; as it grew dark, however, the rain recommenced, and it was through streaming and starless darkness my eye caught the first gleam of the lights of Brussels.I saw little of the city but its lights that night.Having alighted from the diligence, a fiacre conveyed me to the H?tel de —, where I had been advised by a fellow-traveller to put up; having eaten a traveller’s supper, I retired to bed, and slept a traveller’s sleep.
