siding into a look of profound austerity, he observed that the riches of his church were not of this world! Arriving at Liége in the evening, we went in the twilight to visit the Church of St. Jacques, impatient to see the medallions, the portraits, stained glass, and gilding, of which we had read some flourishing accounts in the books of travellers; but, to our chagrin, we found the church in the hands of masons and bricklayers, who had been engaged in its repairs for the last six years. The gilding and the old painting had been whitewashed out, and it was only here and there, in little bits which had escaped spoliation, that we could trace a scrap of the original decorations. But the mullioned windows and Gothic arches of the nave, and the magnificent choir, which could neither be removed nor whitewashed, amply compensated for the disappointment. Close to the choir, and ascending to the gallery overlooking it, is a curious double stair-case, by which two persons, apparently taking opposite directions, ultimately meet upon the same platform; an architectural puzzle, which the people who shew the church reserve as its crowning curiosity. Before we came away, we were requested to sign our names in a book which is kept for that purpose; and here we found a great number of English inscriptions, amongst them that of a popular authoress, who, somewhat superfluously, added to her signature "femme auteur." This somewhat unnecessary description provoked a smile, and we thought that the lady would have done better to have trusted simply to her reputation. The old Palace of the prince-bishops of Liége, familiar to the readers of "Quentin Durward," in the fanciful descriptions of Sir Walter Scott, is the lion of the town; but it is in such a ruinous and dilapidated condition as to disappoint the expectations of the visitor. The square in the interior, which is said to have furnished the model of our Royal Exchange, is now a market for vegetables, and with its low Moorish architecture, its gloomy arcades, and its loitering and listless groups in picturesque dresses under sheds and awnings, it has something of an oriental character. All the markets of Liége acquire a pictorial interest from the peculiar costume of the boitresse, or market-women, whose tall, flat baskets fitted closely to their backs, and piled up with a variety of commodities, contribute a striking effect to the scene. If Ghent is the Manchester, Liége may be described as the Birmingham, of Flanders. It is here that Mr. Cockerill's famous cannon-foundry and iron-works are established, and from this centre the rail-road system and steam-engineering of the whole country is supplied. Close at hand, also, are the extensive coalmines which originally invited this enterprise, and whose proximity renders important facilities to its operations. The stranger is early apprised of these dingy labours as he approaches the town, by the perpetual clouds of smoke in which it is buried; and when he enters, he has further evidence of the fact in the heavy atmosphere and coal-dust surface of the streets. But, notwithstanding these désagrémens, Liége is so charmingly situated, that we are easily reconciled to the mists of the interior by the exquisite scenery upon which we look out at every side. Liége is built on the rising grounds of a wide basin, formed by the junction of the valleys of the Ourt, the Meuse, and the Vesdre, and com mands prospects so extensive and agreeable that, in spite of its din and smoke, it possesses attractions which no other Belgian city can boast of in an equal degree. It must not be supposed that this prosperous and populous town is given up completely to the fabrication of guns and steam-engines, and the disemboweling of coal-mines. Literature, science, and art have also taken up their stand here, and carry on their tranquil pursuits on the verge of the thunder-clouds, opening upon the sunshine of the rich valleys. There is a capital university here; numerous professors in the various faculties deliver lectures to large classes; and amongst the permanent residents are to be found some of the most distinguished savans. The Liégois have the good taste to be proud of their celebrities, and to do honour to their memory by such simple tributes as they have paid to Grétry, the composer, whose bust may be seen in the open space of the Place Grétry, which is called after him. X.-THE LITERATURE OF BELGIUM. THE literature of Belgium dates from the Revolution. It is a growth of nineteen years. Before that time there might have been three or four authors, of whom, perhaps, one or two may yet survive; but they were merely a few scattered ears of corn springing up in a wide field-not numerous or rich enough to make a harvest. One of the most direct effects of the Revolution has been to produce a National Literature. We must stop, however, to ask what is this National Literature? It is a vexed question, which to this hour agitates the salons of Belgium; and the answer requires us to enter into some explanation. In the first instance it is necessary to observe that of the native Belgian authors some write in French, some in Flemish, and some in both French and Flemish. Those who write in French only, deny that there is any national literature. They say that to constitute a national literature there must be a national language, and that that cannot be called a Flemish literature which is written in French. On the other hand, those who write in Flemish, or both, maintain that so long as the subject is national the literature is national, whatever the language may be in which it is written. There are two races in the country-the Teutonic and the Gaulois. They have different views, different tastes, different manners, and different ideas, social and political. The one would desire, if there were a partition, to join Germany-the other, France. But they have a common interest in the preservation of their independence, and this subdues the external expression of their differences. They concur in desiring a nationality, because their material interests are identified with it. These races do not mix. They have their own provinces to which they are confined. Thus, Liége, Namur, Hainault are French;-East and West Flanders, and Antwerp, are Flemish; -Limbourg and Luxembourg (with the exception of the part restng upon France) are more German than French; while Brabant in the centre, and containing the capital, receives accessions from each, and is the neutral ground upon which all antagonisms are absorbed. The English reader will see at once from this map of differences how the question of a national literature really stands. There cannot be said to exist in Belgium a literature of living manners. The reason is obvious enough. The living manners of Belgium are not special-they are not national. They have no distinctive traits; they are the manners of France, of Germany, more or less mixed and modified. What then has become of the Flemish manners in the provinces just stated to be strictly Flemish? They perished under the sway of Napoleon, who held the country in his hands for fifteen years. He made the manners French, because he placed all the offices of authority in the hands of Frenchmen. He left nothing Flemish behind, but the spirit of nationality, which he could not extinguish ; but he extinguished all its outward and visible signs. A traveller passing through these provinces might fancy himself in France, except that he hears now and then the guttural sounds of the Flemish language issuing from the lips of the peasantry; for it is amongst the lower orders the traditions of a country take their last refuge after new masters and foreign influences have banished them from the upper classes. But the national literature, although it represents no living manners, depicts with earnestness and fidelity the manners of the past. It is essentially historical. It revives all the traditions of the country. The Flemish writers in this respect display a marked contrast to those who write in French. They seek to restore the old pride and pomp of the early times-they bring back the old customs, forms, and institutions- they recall the old burghers, the lusty merchants, the gallant knights, and the citizen chivalry-they paint in detail, and shew you, like Ostade and Teniers, the vie intérieure of the old people. The French writers on the contrary, although equally national in their subjects, deal only in generalities, and impart even to their generalities something of the modern finesse of French literature. They write Flemish romances as foreigners might be expected to write them from the study of books, but without the inspiration or gusto of the national spirit. It is an honourable characteristic of the Belgian authors that, whatever may be the special tendencies of their genius, they have all devoted a large portion of their labours to the illustration of the history and antiquities of their country. The universality of their productions is also remarkable. Not one Belgian author has confined himself to works of fiction. On the other hand, there is scarcely a single writer of eminence in any of the higher departments of history or philosophy, who has not written romances or novels founded on the local chronicles. There is no author-craft in Belgium. Literature has not yet acquired a sufficient extension to be cultivated as a profession. With a few unimportant exceptions, all the authors enjoy appointments under government. A few of the most distinguished may be enumerated: Baron de Reiffenberg (history, romances, poetry) is Keeper of the Royal Library at Brussels; Baron St. Genois (history, novels) is Professor and Keeper of the Library of the University at Ghent; H. Conscience (some of whose works are known to the English reader) is Secretary to the Society of Fine Arts at Antwerp; Sirat (author of the "History of Painting," of novels, poetry, and dramas) is one of the Chefs de Bureau of the Minister of the Interior; Moke (history, novels, legends) is Director of the Athénée Royale at Ghent; and Van Hasselt (equally distinguished by the variety of his productions) is Inspector of Schools. The emoluments arising from these appointments (voluntarily bestowed by the government as a reward and encouragement to men of letters) vary from 150l. to 300l. per annum, affording incomes quite large enough for the inexpensive habits of the country. Birth, connection, and personal influence do not possess here the same weight which attaches to them elsewhere. A man of genius may make his way in Belgium to the highest position in spite of all difficulties. The difficulties he encounters, however, are neither so serious nor so numerous as those which embarrass the course of unfriended talent in England. There are no class prejudices to overcome in Belgium. The son of the poorest artizan may obtain an elevated station, and keep it, without any of the jealousies or petty obstructions which would harass him in this country. The most favourable opportunities are thrown open to the people at large by the extension and cheapness of education,-a luxury which the humblest may command according to their circumstances. A poor man may send his son to the colleges, and advance him to any of the professions, at an outlay of 5l. or 6l. per annum; and if his son be a clever fellow, there is nothing to prevent him from attaining the greatest eminence. Conscience, the most popular of the living authors, served as a common soldier; and Delhoungne, a distinguished member of the Lower Chamber, and who is likely one day to be minister, is the son of a struggling man who kept an old book-stall in Ghent. Numerous instances of a similar kind might be cited. The Belgians boast of an old Flemish literature, which is not taken into account here, because it belongs to a remote period, and is, to all intents and purposes, a dead letter. In common with the people of most other countries, they assert a title to the cultivation of learning at an earlier date than their neighbours, and refer to many works of high erudition which were produced even so far back as the ninth and tenth centuries. They claim the famous fable of the "Knights of the Swan," as being originally of Flemish origin, and the celebrated "Roman du Renard," which a recent author has been at great pains to prove was written in Flanders by a Fleming. They also ascribe the invention of the first newspaper (commonly'attributed to the physician Renaudot, the editor of a periodical sheet called the Gazette, published in the reign of Louis XIV.) to a printer of Antwerp, who, in 1550, issued a Flemish journal under the name of the Courante, which contained political articles, literary and commercial advertisements, and lists of shipping. The first collection of voyages to India, and the first idea of the art of verifying dates, likewise enter into the catalogue of Flemish achievements.* But that old literature seems to have reached its height in the seventeenth century, which is regarded as its golden age; and from that time till the stirring days of the Revolution its existence was indicated only by faint and scanty rays. * “ La Belgique, illustrée par les Sciences, les Arts, et les Lettres. Par Octave Delepierre," a valuable epitome of topics connected with the industry and arts of the country. XI. THE VALLEY OF THE OURT. LET us start from Liége in our old-fashioned post-chaise, rather than by the railroad, that we may linger as we list amidst this enchanting scenery. It is the valley of the Ourt, and the road lies on the banks of the stream. The river traverses in this place one of the most charming ravines in the world, full of abrupt turns, mazes of foliage, cottages, rustic bridges, and picturesque mills twirling like gossamer wings in the air against the dark background of wooded hills. In one spot there is a burst of a far-off landscape, opening upon us suddenly, like a sylvan panorama conjured up out of the earth as we pass along; in another, a vast amphitheatre of forest-trees surrounding us on all sides, and dotted with churches whose white spires, octagonal towers, and golden crosses, gleam out through the rich green leaves; again, we catch in the distance before us a perspective of the road winding through an avenue of lofty elms, until it is lost in the depths of the remote defile which the sun has no power to illuminate. See! there comes slowly down that slight declivity a marketwoman,—her basket of twisted reeds, with its fantastic embroidery of coloured cottons, is raised on her shoulders, and its snow-white covering conceals its contents, which are piled up far above her head; her mantle is of scarlet cloth, a light kerchief folded across her forehead, and ascending conically, falls down at either side, waving, as the breeze flutters it, across her arms. Even from this spot her sabots are visible, terminating with a mellow light the deep-blue stocking which peeps under a gown chequered with various hues. The figure is somewhat grotesque, according to our notions; but observe how harmoniously the colours tone in with the dead clouds of shadow at each side and behind her, and the dusty track of road which falls off into the thicket, giving distinctness to the perspective by defining the distance which lies beyond this sheet of sunshine at our feet. Here is a wine-house by the road side. The lattice-windows receive the thick grapes from the house-vine, which looks as if it were eager to drop its lusciousness into the wicker framework. A sign swings in the wind, and a bush has taken root in the fissures of the old cabaret. The post-chaise stops at the door, which the illroped horses seem to know by habit. What vision is that which moves out through the doorway? How beautiful the figure, and how picturesque the dress! Her hair is simply drawn over her forehead, and folded back beneath the cap of gauze, so light, transparent, and flexile, that it appears scarcely strong enough to restrain within its slender net that cluster of silken hair which is elaborately plaited into two divisions behind, and falls down in lessening threads, that sweep her rich bodice below the waist. The dress has a tinge of the old times in it, and its lively colours heighten the quaintness of its form. The bodice terminates in an angle, studded with a blaze of new-born roses, and the gown of thin silk, prankt with lace, falls in an hundred folds over ankles so fragile that they are worthy of sparkling in the painted chambers of Versailles. A |