my dinner,—as Mrs Trollope used to do when she was in Belgium.
As I was walking about in the evening, I perceived a dirty little alley illuminated with chandeliers and wax candles. There must be a ball, thought I, or some gaiety going on: let us inquire. “No, sir,” replied a man to whom I put the question, “it’s not a ball,—it is a Monsieur who has presented to an image of the Virgin Mary which is up that court, a petticoat, which, they say, is worth one thousand five hundred francs, and this lighting-up is in honour of her putting it on.” The race of fools is not extinct, thought I. I wonder whether, like King Ferdinand, he worked it himself. Belgium is certainly at this present the stronghold of superstition.
Chapter Seventeen
Went to Harquet’s manufactory of arms, and was much amused. They export all over the world, and the varieties they make up for the different markets are astonishing. They were then very busy completing an order for several thousand muskets for the Belgian troops, which load at the breech and fire off without locks or priming. They showed me a fowling-piece on the same principle, which they fired off under water. But the low prices of the arms astonished me. There were a large quantity of very long fowling-pieces with the maker’s name at Constantinople, for the Turkish gentlemen, at thirty francs each: a common musket was fourteen francs. I perceived in a corner a large number of muskets, of infamous workmanship, and with locks resembling those awkward attempts made two hundred years back. I asked what they were for. They were for the South American market, and made to order, for the people there would use no others: any improvement was eschewed by them. I presume they had borrowed one of the Spanish muskets brought over by Pizarro as a model, but, at all events, they were very cheap, only eight francs each. God help us, how cheaply men can be killed now-a-days!
It is very seldom that you now meet with a name beginning with an X, but one caught my eye as I was walking through the streets here. Urban Xhenemont, négociant. I perceive there are still some to be found in Greece; the only one I know of in England is that of Sir Morris Ximenes, who, I presume, claims descent from the celebrated cardinal. The mention of that name reminds me of the songs of the improvisatore, Theodore Hook, and his address in finding a rhyme for such an awkward name as Ximenes. Few possess the talent of improvising. In Italy it is more common, because the Italian language admits the rhyme with so much facility; but a good improvisatore is rare even in that country. There was a Dutchman who was a very good improvisatore, a poor fellow who went about to amuse companies with his singing and this peculiar talent. One day a gentleman dropped a gold Guillaume into a glass of Burgundy, and told him if he would make a good impromptu, he should have both the wine and the gold: without hesitation he took up the glass, and suiting the action to the word, sang as follows:—
“Twee Goden in een Glas,
Wat zal ik van maken?
K’ steek Plutus in myn tas,
K slaak Bacchus in myn Kaken.”
Which may be rendered into French as follows:—
“Quoi! deux dieux dans un verre,
Eh bien! que vais-j’en faire?
J’empocherai Plutus,
J’avalerai Bacchus.”
The gentleman, who gave me this translation, also furnished me with a copy of extempore French verses, given by a gentleman of Maestricht, who was celebrated as an improvisatore. They certainly are very superior. He was at a large party, and agreed to improvise upon any theme given him by five of those present in the way of Souvenir. The first person requested the souvenir of early youth.
“Vous souvient-il? Amis de ma jeunesse,
Des beaux momens de nos fougueux exploits?
Quand la raison sous le joug de l’ivresse,
Essaye en vain de soutenir ses droits.
Ce tems n’est plus, cet âge de folie,
Où tout en nous est pressé de jouir:
Mes bons amis, du printemps de la vie
Gardons toujours le joyeux souvenir.”
The next party requested a souvenir of the conscription, many of them, as well as the poet, having been forced into the army of France.
“Vous souvient-il? que plus tard, sous les armes
Plusieurs donons, désignés par le sort,
Loin des parents; versant d’amères larmes,
Allaient trouver ou la gloire ou la mort.
Ces jours de deuil par milliers dans l’histoire
Ne viendront plus, sur nous s’appesantir
Amis, volons an temple de Mémoire
Effaçons-en le sanglant souvenir.”
The third party requested a souvenir of his “first love.”
“Vous sonvient-il? de cet enfant de Guide
Fripon rusé, volage et séducteur;
Qui par les yeux d’une beauté timide,
D’un trait de feu veut nous frapper au coeur.
Du sentimens que sa flèche fit naître,
Et que la mort peut seul anéantir,
Eternissons le ravissant bien-être,
En conservant un si beau souvenir.”
The fourth proposed as a theme, the morning of his marriage.
“Vous souvient-il? du jour ou l’hyménée
Vint nous dicter ses éternelles loix,
En attachant à notre destinée
L’objet sacré de notre premier choix.
Solennité qui par des voeux nous lie,
De saints devoirs chargeant notre avenir,
Solennité que le vulgaire oublie
Nous te gardons en pieux souvenir.”
The last party desired him to wind up with friendship.
“Quel souvenir puis-je chanter encore,
Après celui né dans la volupté?
Il en est un que le tems corrobore,
C’est le premier élan de l’amitié.
Eh! qui de nous n’a pas dans sa jeunesse,
Livré son coeur à ses charmes puissants,
Sainte Amitié, jusqu’à dans la vieillesse,
Console-nous des ravages du tems.”
I should imagine that after the gentleman had finished all this, he must have been pretty well out of breath.
About four miles from Liege is the celebrated manufactory of Seraing, belonging to Messrs Cockerell. It is beautifully situated on the banks of the Meuse, and was formerly the summer palace of the Prince Archbishop. But it is not only here that you observe these symptoms of the times—all over France you will perceive the same, and the major portion of the manufactories
