“She has probably left Brussels—perhaps is gone to England， as she said she would，” muttered I inwardly， as on the afternoon of the fourth Sunday， I turned from the door of the chapel-royal which the door-keeper had just closed and locked， and followed in the wake of the last of the congregation， now dispersed and dispersing over the square.I had soon outwalked the couples of English gentlemen and ladies.(Gracious goodness！ why don’t they dress better？ My eye is yet filled with visions of the high-flounced， slovenly， and tumbled dresses in costly silk and satin， of the large unbecoming collars in expensive lace； of the ill-cut coats and strangely fashioned pantaloons which every Sunday， at the English service， filled the choirs of the chapel-royal， and after it， issuing forth into the square， came into disadvantageous contrast with freshly and trimly attired foreign figures， hastening to attend salut at the church of Coburg.) I had passed these pairs of Britons， and the groups of pretty British children， and the British footmen and waiting-maids； I had crossed the Place Royale， and got into the Rue Royale， thence I had diverged into the Rue de Louvain—an old and quiet street.I remember that， feeling a little hungry， and not desiring to go back and take my share of the “go？ter，” now on the refectory-table at Pelet’s—to wit， pistolets and water— I stepped into a baker’s and refreshed myself on a couc(？)—it is a Flemish word， I don’t know how to spell it—à Corinthe-anglice， a currant bun—and a cup of coffee； and then I strolled on towards the Porte de Louvain.Very soon I was out of the city， and slowly mounting the hill， which ascends from the gate， I took my time； for the afternoon， though cloudy， was very sultry， and not a breeze stirred to refresh the atmosphere.No inhabitant of Brussels need wander far to search for solitude； let him but move half a league from his own city and he will find her brooding still and blank over the wide fields， so drear though so fertile， spread out treeless and trackless round the capital of Brabant.Having gained the summit of the hill， and having stood and looked long over the cultured but lifeless campaign， I felt a wish to quit the high road， which I had hitherto followed， and get in among those tilled grounds—fertile as the beds of a Brobdignagian kitchen-garden—spreading far and wide even to the boundaries of the horizon， where， from a dusk green， distance changed them to a sullen blue， and confused their tints with those of the livid and thunderous-looking sky.Accordingly I turned up a by-path to the right； I had not followed it far ere it brought me， as I expected， into the fields， amidst which， just before me， stretched a long and lofty white wall enclosing， as it seemed from the foliage showing above， some thickly planted nursery of yew and cypress， for of that species were the branches resting on the pale parapets， and crowding gloomily about a massive cross， planted doubtless on a central eminence and extending its arms， which seemed of black marble，over the summits of those sinister trees.I approached， wondering to what house this well-protected garden appertained； I turned the angle of the wall， thinking to see some stately residence； I was close upon great iron gates； there was a hut serving for a lodge near， but I had no occasion to apply for the key—the gates were open； I pushed one leaf back—rain had rusted its hinges， for it groaned dolefully as they revolved.Thick planting embowered the entrance.Passing up the avenue， I saw objects on each hand which， in their own mute language.of inscription and sign， explained clearly to what abode I had made my way.This was the house appointed for all living； crosses， monuments， and garlands of everlastings announced， “The Protestant Cemetery， outside the gate of Louvain.”
The place was large enough to afford half an hour’s strolling without the monotony of treading continually the same path； and， for those who love to peruse the annals of graveyards， here was variety of inscription enough to occupy the attention for double or treble that space of time.Hither people of many kindreds， tongues， and nations， had brought their dead for interment； and here， on pages of stone， of marble， and of brass， were written names， dates， last tributes of pomp or love， in English， in French， in German， and Latin.Here the Englishman had erected a marble monument over the remains of his Mary Smith or Jane Brown， and inscribed it only with her name.There the French widower had shaded the grave： of his Elmire or Celestine with a brilliant thicket of roses， amidst which a little tablet rising， bore an equally bright testimony to her countless virtues.Every nation， tribe， and kindred， mourned after its own fashion； and how soundless was the mourning of all！ My own tread， though slow and upon smooth-rolled paths， seemed to startle， because it formed the sole break to a silence otherwise total.Not only the winds， but the very fitful， wandering airs， were that afternoon， as by common consent， all fallen asleep in their various quarters； the north was hushed， the south silent， the east sobbed not， nor did the west whisper.The clouds in heaven were condensed and dull， but apparently quite motionless.Under the trees of this cemetery nestled a warm breathless gloom， out of which the cypresses stood up straight and mute， above which the willows hung low and still； where the flowers， as languid as fair， waited listless for night dew or thunder- shower； where the tombs， and those they hid， lay impassible to sun or shadow， to rain or drought.
