LETTER XIV.

Immediately after breakfast this morning we started for Brussels. We made every effort to have an early breakfast and have it quickly served, but the people of this land never hurry; they do not know the meaning of the word. At eight A.M. we were seated at our table in the dining-room ready to eat, and had ordered our breakfast prepared one hour before, but there was nothing ready for us. ‘Will you hurry up our breakfast?’ said E. to our sleepy-looking waiter. Slowly he answered, ‘It is cooking,’ in his own lingo. Ten minutes go by. Another nod to the stolid waiter; and in tones of entreaty, accompanied with a piece of money, E. said, ‘Will you not bring us something to eat?’ The man, still standing as stiff as a post, replied, ‘It is coming.’ ‘But we leave at eleven o’clock,’ said E. in the man’s own language. But the stupid Belgian did not see the joke, and did not relax a muscle.

We have had a delightful day in Brussels, and modern Brussels is a beautiful city and in many ways much like Paris. It has broad, handsome streets and boulevards, beautiful parks, squares and gardens, with many rich statues, monuments, artificial lakes and fountains. The city is built on and up and down a hill—the new and elegant part of Brussels on top, and the old and poorer part at the foot. The royal family of Belgium live here, and have several handsome palaces. The Capitol is a magnificent structure, and there are many noted churches; we went into several of them, but of all these things I shall not now tell you very much.

Service is always going on in some one part of these European cathedrals. In one that we stepped into to-day they were celebrating funeral rites, and before us were placed some painful paintings of Christ, showing his bleeding wounds. The Cathedral of St. Gudule is the largest and finest, and contains a great numbex of perfectly magnificent tapestries.

We went into the largest art gallery in the city, where are many choice works, and we greatly enjoyed them; but here too are more of Rubens’ plump angels, of anything but angelic proportions, and I am sure if our Sunday-school children at home should see some of them they would never sing, ‘I want to be an angel,’ any more. Here are more of Tennier’s beautiful productions, and fine pictures by Vander Weyden, Rhemi, Vander Meulen, and other noted Flemish artists, and the collections give good opportunities for studying the Flemish schools.

But the laces! These laces are the most tempting of all things. We go into houses that on the outside look like private homes, and are politely asked to be seated at tables, when the women in attendance take from boxes and drawers their stores of rich fabrics and spread them out for our eyes to feast upon: flounces, handkerchiefs, fichus, capes, collars, all of the finest make and of most exquisite designs. In the Royal Lace Manufactory we saw the bridal trousseau of some noble lady, so called, which was just completed, and the dress, made entirely of the finest duchesse lace, was a marvel of loveliness. We were taken into the rooms where the women were making the ‘dentelles,’ and after seeing their methods we shall never again wonder that duchesse and point laces are such costly fabrics. Nearly all the most valuable laces of the world are made here, and many women spend their entire lives in making a piece of lace to ornament some other woman made of the same perishable dust as themselves and of whom they are the equals. Ah me! We spent a short time in the Belgium Exposition, now open, and never before did I see in any one collection such a wilderness of rich, beautiful objects. A drive about the charming city, a short stop in the Botanical Gardens, and we are soon on the road back to Antwerp, with mingled thoughts of the paintings, gems, and laces back of us, and of Bonaparte and Waterloo, and the historic ground we are travelling over. We will save more time, and more money too, for Brussels in our next trip.

Antwerp, Friday, August 10th.—This has been a rainy day, but we ought not to complain, for we have had but few of them. We have been out all the day, and have seen this old city pretty thoroughly, although many parts of it now have a modern look. Yet numerous old historic landmarks remain. I hope you will not get weary of hearing about art and artists, for we are in the land of Rubens and in the very cradle of art here. We saw to-day the house Rubens lived and died in. He is buried in the church of St. Jacques, as are also his two wives. In this church is the picture of his ‘Virgin and Child,’ with several other figures on the canvas, all said to be likenesses of members of his family. In the museum are many works of all the noted old masters of the Dutch and Flemish school—for Antwerp gave birth to a long list of them—and here their works are treasured. Here is the noted ‘Le Christ à la Paille’—Christ dead, lying on a stone strewed with straw; and here too is Vandyk’s ‘Saviour on the Cross,’ which tells the whole sublime story. Of the more modern pictures, Lady Godiva is worthy of mention. The flesh tints are exquisite. She is represented as just letting drop a curtain, which is of a bright, warm color, and her attitude is so graceful that one looks at her again and again. Of the many exquisite paintings we have seen here, I will tell you when I see you, which will not be long now, God willing.

At noon it held up a little, so we took a drive about the town. Antwerp is the stronghold of Belgium, and there are immense fortifications about the city. The town has known great vicissitudes, and in old times terrible religious persecutions, but it is now in a most prosperous condition, and trades with all the large mercantile cities of the world, as the piles of all kinds of merchandise we saw at the wharves proved to us. The beautiful double-width black silks are manufactured here, and can be purchased at low prices. The shops are fine, and present a tempting display of articles.

I must tell you of a laughable incident that occurred to-day. E. and F. were walking in front of me, I lingering to look in the store windows, and carrying not only my own wrap, but one for F. also, over my arm. Two fine-looking ladies paused to look at us, for you must remember we are known as foreigners everywhere. One turned to the other and said, ‘Look, two foreign travellers and the lady’s-maid!’ I carry no more wraps!

Now, of only one more joy shall I tell you. The cathedral and its contents! We had looked again and again at its tall, graceful, delicate spire, rising high above the houses, and we had heard its sweet, soft bells before going in. But now we have seen its inside walls and the glories they hold. The interior of the edifice is comparatively cold and barren, but the paintings within are delightful and surprise enough for a life-time. I forgive Rubens for his unangel-like angels, that I have not liked, for these wonderful works here of his surpass anything on canvas I have ever seen. I was expecting to behold something unusual in ‘The Descent from the Cross,’ but not prepared for anything so miraculously beautiful and sublime. I could not tell to mortal my sensations upon first beholding this painting. I wonder now if it was a painting! There was Christ dead! His beautiful, pathetic face looked as if he had suffered, but it is now full of spiritualized peace and rest. Mary’s sorrowful face, at his feet, is wet with her falling tears. The loving and beloved John is near, and Magdalen extends her arms to take the body of her dead Master. These faces are all exquisite, sadly so, and yet one seems to see in them an expression of trustfulness, a spiritual hope, as if they saw something beyond the unspeakable sadness of the hour. The figure of our Saviour is touchingly real. The drooping of the precious head—the muscles relaxed—it is all Death; and never, before or since has the great, sad tragedy been so sublimely told. The colors are wonderful—rich, mellow, and harmonious; and we leave the cathedral with tears in our eyes, thinking only of Christ crucified, and for us.

Antwerp, August 11th.—My dear ——: My last words to you from a foreign land! We are shopping, packing, speaking our adieux, for to-day at three P.M. the Nordland sails, and we turn our faces toward our native land. We are glad to go, and we are sorry to leave.

LETTER XV.

After a good night’s rest, for the next few days out it seemed enough for us to sit silent, as silent as women can be, and think. Think of all the wonderful sights we had seen, and carefully store them away in memory’s niche for future enjoyment. Think, too, of home and the loved ones there, and bless the steamer’s big wheel, whose every turn carried us nearer to them.

Amongst our pleasant fellow-voyagers we have Rev. Mr. G——r, of the ‘Old South;’ who is, if not all Boston, a valued bit of it. Prof. Berlitz is also one of us, and adds to his many accomplishments a knowledge of ‘mal de mer’ in all languages.

We have had head winds, and much stormy weather, but we are glad to have a chance given us to see old ocean in all her varied moods, and can scarcely say in which we like her best.

New York, America, August 24th, 1888.—On land again! Our good steamer brought us safely over. ‘Slow, but sure’ was her motto.

Our sailing into New York harbor at just sunset, with the gorgeous colors of the western sky, and the purest blue above our heads, was to us a pretty welcome; and, with hearts full of gratitude, we joined voices in singing—

In a few hours more we shall be steaming toward the dear old ‘hub’—Boston—home; and shall soon be with you, dear mother, my queen of queens. But our pleasure in anticipation is not entirely painless, for here we part with one of our trio, whose kindly care of us, for the last few months, has added greatly to our happiness.

Boston, August 27th.—Europe, in many ways, is delightful, and the memories of our perfect trip will certainly be a joy to us forever; but we wonder that any American can choose expatriation, for we return from all the fascinations of the ‘other side’—certainly enjoyed and seen at their best—thanking God that we are free American citizens. Some one has said that ‘different descriptions of the same countries are ever like old coats turned.’ And George Macdonald writes, ‘Fact, at best, is but a garment of truth, which has ten thousand changes of raiment, woven in the same loom.’ Many a made-over article gives enjoyment and satisfaction. If my words give these to my readers I am satisfied.

Finis.

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