which he has contrived to rule this busy little country, and to keep it together amidst the shock of the political earthquakes which have produced such convulsions on its French and Prussian frontiers, (fearful as such an experiment would have been elsewhere, especially just after a revolution) has answered the purpose admirably. Indeed it has answered the purpose a thousand times better than the most adroit management. It has suffered the real nature of the Belgian constitution to develop itself, and to shew how wonderfully it can get on without any other help from a King than the endorsement of his name. In no other sense is Leopold king of that country.

The old families and the commercial classes were long and bitterly opposed to his government, but they have become gradually reconciled to him by the total negation of all antagonism in his character and conduct. He is universally respected for his "good intentions," his bonhomie (a small supply of which goes a great way with a king), his quiet courage, and his known desire to advance the happiness of the people. Nobody thought, even in the worst times, of blaming Leopold for anything. It was felt that he was thrown by accident into an invidious position, and the animosities of party were directed chiefly against his advisers. I had a conversation, during the period when the Orange faction was at its height, with a merchant of Liege, who made this matter clear. "Leopold," he observed, "was made king by the priests and the canaille; he is not the king of the thinking classes; but nobody objects to Leopold personally. He is a good man, and a sensible man, and would make an excellent king, under better auspices. If he is unpopular with us, it is not on his own account, but on account of the change which brought him into power. It is true he does no good; but he does no harm, he does nothing. I had an interview with him on domestic affairs, which lasted for eight hours. He is accessible to everybody, and anxious to assist everybody-but he does nothing for anybody. He is a clever man, and knows everything-but he does nothing. He speaks German, French, Flemish, and English; he is affable, amiable, and reasonable; the people do not express disapprobation of him, because he gives them no occasion-he does nothing. That is the secret of his security. We all feel that the priests rule the country, and that the King is only a puppet in their hands. They pull the wires, and the King moves. Should any change take place, he will be treated with respect and forbearance, for it will be remembered from the highest to the lowest, that if he did no good during his reign, he did no evil-that, in fact, he did nothing."

Circumstances have undergone much alteration since that time; but the material truth is still the same. The industry of the people is living down the influence of the priests; but the priests still wield too large a power, and the King is still a cypher.

V. THE GLOVE OF FLANDERS.

CHARLES V.'s pun upon Ghent, or Gant, is a standing joke in Belgium. In his time it was one of the wealthiest cities in Europe, and so large and populous that he used to indulge in the pleasantry of saying that he could put all Paris in his glove (gant); and on another occasion when the sanguinary Alva urged him to destroy the town by way of punishing the insubordination of the

inhabitants, his Majesty took the "cruel Duke" to the top of the old beffroi, and making him look down upon the outspread city beneath, asked him "Combien il falloit de peaux d'Espagne pour un gant de cette grandeur?" This imperial calembourg has given currency to the supposition that the name of the city originated in some passage of ancient chivalry, and was literally derived from a glove. But this is an error. The name is Flemish, and is traced in the old chronicles to the Vandals, who, taking the place from the Goths, called it Wanda, whence by an easy transition we get Ganda, abbreviated in course of time into Gand, and finally Frenchified into Ghent.

Miraculous accounts of the antiquity of Ghent are supplied by the Flemish historians; but no respectable proofs can be adduced of its existence earlier than the seventh or eighth century. It was formerly the capital of Flanders; it is now the capital of Eastern Flanders. It was formerly a rich and thriving place; it is now the principal manufacturing town of Belgium. Here the Knights of the Golden Fleece once held their chapters; and here in later times a fleece of more substantial gold has been conjured out of the cotton manufacture. Kings and princes and emperors and brave republican merchants have held sway in Ghent through the pomp of courts and the blood of revolutions. Great men have left their names here in houses and public places, where their memories are still preserved. Charlemagne and the Arteveldes, Philip the Good, Charles V., Napoleon; Louis XVIII., took refuge here when he was driven out of Paris in 1815; the Duke of Wellington occupied a house opposite to him; the Duc de Berri was lodged at the little hotel des PaysBas; and all the sovereigns of Europe, during that famous three months, while Ghent enjoyed the temporary honor of entertaining royalty, sent their ambassadors to do suit and service at the court of the banished monarch. Strange fluctuations has Ghent seen since those days. During, and after, the Revolution, the most Orange of all the Orange cities of Belgium, it lost its trade and menaced the new order of things by daily riots and émeutes. But, when the first fiery outbreaks were over, the resisting spirit gradually subsided into tranquillity; the Place d'Armes relapsed into a promenade and book-fair; the club-houses, no longer the scene of wild party strife, were once more given up to dominoes and coffee; the name of King William was quietly effaced from the façade of the university; and merchants and manufacturers, glove-makers and lace-makers, and the new playhouse, whose saloons are the handsomest in Europe, began to brighten and look forward to prosperous times.

At the present moment the trade of Ghent, which has derived immense facilities from the rail-roads, is rapidly improving; and so long as trade flourishes there is little risk of disturbances in these conservative towns. The Belgians may be depended upon for the preservation of order under a system of government which encourages and protects industry. In this matter they are quite as practical as the English, without having our constitutional safety-valvethe habit of grumbling.

Intersected by numerous canals, and the wandering branches of two rivers, spanned by countless bridges of wood and stone; charged in its old market places, narrow streets, and bustling quays with

quaint and picturesque architecture, of which an ancient Gothic house on the grand canal, crusted over with ornaments, affords a characteristic specimen; challenging your attention at every turn with historical sites and rnins, of which the most remarkable are the old turreted gateway where our John of Gaunt was born, and the ancient belfry or watch-tower, which was at once a monument of the power of the Gantois, and the tocsin of their security, from whence they rang out the alarum that upon occasions of danger called the citizens together, Ghent contains more objects likely to interest the stranger than any other town in Belgium. A few days may be agreeably and profitably spent in its streets, in exploring its well-furnished shops, markets and manufactories, and in visiting the hospitals and religious houses, the Casino, and the Botanical gardens.

The churches are numerous, and two or three of them superb. The churches are the manifest glory of the Flemish towns. They are not only attractive from their architectural beauty, their pomp, and their endless incentives to religious enthusiasm, but they draw in, as to a common centre, all that is curious and peculiar in costume, usage, and character. Open all day long, they receive communicants from sunrise till the close of vespers; and there, in the little chapels that nestle in the aisles, with their altars and images reposing in the flitting shadows, you discover the most picturesque groups absorbed in prayer. The sight is impressive. Let us linger for a moment behind this pillar. It is the cathedral church of St. Bovan, the marvel of Ghent. As you look up the nave, you suppress your breath. The scene is transcendently grand. On every side you are surrounded by marble statues; and the whole of the interior is lined with black marble, relieved at intervals with graceful scrolls and white columns of Parian purity and delicacy. There are twenty-two chapels within the walls; the altars are alternately composed of gold, silver, and marble. Verde antique, porphyry, and scagliola, are scattered about as profusely as so much whitewash or tinsel. The rarest paintings and the most elaborate sculpture teem upon you from every point of vision. It would seem as if the treasures of Sardanapalus and Cleopatra had been poured into this costly temple. Hush! in the dim distance, rendered more distant by the splendours which distract the eye in the intervening space, there is a gathering of children coming up the nave in solemn procession. They are dressed in white, with lace veils that fall over their faces like dropping clouds. They carry in their hands vases and baskets of artificial flowers, which they strew over the ground as they advance towards the altar. Now they take their seats close to the choir-the organ peals out a low, deep, full volume of sound, and fills the air with music; a ceremony, mystical to us, is performing, and now they place their offerings at the foot of the altar, and deposit their mites upon the silver plates presented to them by the priests. It is the anniversary of a charity for the sick of the city, and these children are the ministers of that twice-blessed benevolence. The service is over, and they resume their procession as before, returning in the same order, and strewing the ground with flowers. How sweetly this meek goodness contrasts with the gorgeousness of the edifice in which it is displayed! The earnestness and steadfastness of Catholicism is rendered intelligible through such scenes. There are so many motives to urge these

people into the temples of their religion, so many lights and helps to spiritual enthusiasm in the pictorial parables and sculptured histories which these walls exhibit, that we cannot wonder if the heart of the devotee should throb with emotion, and sink down into unenquiring worship before the mixed influences which appeal so eloquently to his imagination. We say truly that the Catholic religion is addressed to the senses of the multitude; that it searches the credulity of nature, and trusts to faith the convictions which belong to the province of reason. But is it certain that reason always moves the affections of the poor and ignorant? Be the issues what they may-superstition, fanaticism, and blind obedience-the fidelity and devotion of the lower classes are, at least, effectually secured by the gorgeous forms and open communion of the Catholic Church.

VI. THE BEGUIN.

The Beguinage is a convent of nuns who voluntarily dedicate themselves to prayer and acts of charity. It occupies an island in Ghent, is almost a small town in itself, has little silent streets, and a large ancient chapel of its own, is surrounded by a fosse, and entered across a drawbridge through a massive old gateway. The transition is felt in a moment from the noisy clattering pavement you have just left, and the tranquil and solitary place you have entered, where a distant footpath, or a solitary figure gliding in the shadow of the wall are incidents to attract attention. The best time for seeing the Beguinage is at the hour of vespers, towards the winter, when the dusk has set in, and the chapel in which the nuns assemble is partially lighted.

It was a dark autumnal evening, rather gusty out of doors, when we visited the Beguinage for the first time. The place was so still that the slightest sounds were audible, and we fancied that we could hear the wind moaning through the old gateway as we drove in. Our coachman, however, did not seem to be much impressed with the profound repose of the place, but made it a point to carry us at a dashing pace up to the door of the chapel. Two or three old pensioners lingered outside the porch, huddled up, listening to the organ, and, now and then, peering into the chapel as the door noiselessly opened to admit the apparition of a solitary nun. The interior was full. There are six hundred nuns in the establishment; their dress is black, with a large white veil which, during the time of their devotions, they wear over their heads, and falling down upon their shoulders. The whole space of the aisles and nave was occupied by these six hundred sisters, who knelt forward with their heads bowed, and their arms crossed, the uniformity of the attitude heightening the religious severity of the general effect. They were nearly all motionless-hardly a stir or palpitation amongst that vast assembly; and as the faint lights from side walls and columns fell slantingly upon their sheeted forms, they looked like rows of white tombs, touched here and there by a dull moonlight. Old sisters with lanterns went glancing to and fro amongst the Beguins, and came occasionally towards the altar to collect contributions from the few strangers, chiefly English, who were gathered there; and the organ loft was filled with novices, wearing chaplets on their heads, like sacrificial virgins about to perform some solemn rite. Amongst

the nuns there were some whose faces, whenever they permitted us to have a glimpse of them, appeared to be singularly fair and placid, and full of a benign rebuke to that outer world of thoughtlessness and gaiety from which we had just parted, and which we were so soon to rejoin. People look at these things differently, and under different influences; but the deep tranquillity of life in this retirement, its unvarying round of devotional offices and charitable labours resumed and discharged day after day with unfailing regularity, whatever we may think of the means by which it is attained, or the uses to which it is dedicated, forces upon the spectator an involuntary contrast with that wayward existence in the open highway of the world, where, racked by imaginary as well as real cares, or abandoned to the pursuit of fugitive pleasures, the bulk of mankind expend their energies and waste their hearts in struggling after shadows.

The next morning we visited the Beguinage again. The aspect of the chapel was more sober and less impressive, but it afforded us a clearer view of the actual every-day lives of the sisterhood. Morning and evening it is still the same-the same recurrence to prayer and confession, and the same rigid observance of a fixed division and employment of time. Coming out of the chapel we accosted one of the Beguins, who was just passing us in front of the altar at the breaking up of the service. She put her finger on her lip, and motioning us to keep silence, pointed to the door, indicating that she would speak to us after she had left the chapel. She then turned towards the altar, dropped for a moment on her knees, and having finished her prayer, joined us outside. To our great surprise she addressed us in English, told us she was an Englishwoman, the only one in the order, or that had ever been in it, satisfied our enquiries, which concerned the novices we had seen in the organloft, and concluded by inviting us to her residence in the Beguinage, an invitation of which it is hardly necessary to say we gladly availed

ourselves.

Everybody who has been in Ghent knows the conventual dwellings which form the outer circle of the island on which the Beguinage is built-small, secluded houses, with neat lattice windows, shut in by a high wall, each house having its own separate entrance, numbered and inscribed with the names of the saints to whom the indwellers are dedicated, or the convents from whence they came. When the little door in this high wall opens, you find yourself in a tiny garden filling the space between the wall and the house, planted with a few shrubs and flowers, scattered off in miniature beds, or a tall thoughtful tree outgrowing the wall, as if it were trying to look over it, and see what was going on outside. Our Beguin had the prettiest speck of garden imaginable, with a fairy ring by way of walk winding round a sort of ball or mound dotted over with blossoms, and edged with white stones, all very modest and bright, and bearing evidence to the careful hands that plucked the morning weeds out of it before the sun came to invigorate them. From the garden we passed into the parlour, not directly, for it did not exactly open upon the fairy walk, but through a passage so narrow that it was but a step into the room. The daintiest little parlour in all Flanders; just like the queen's chamber in a bee-hive. The room was big enough for a couple of people to dine in, perhaps