e insist upon speaking it so
badly. I asked the conductor if he had been at the battle; he burst out
laughing like a philosopher, as he was, and said "Pas si bete." I asked
the farmer whether his contributions were lighter now than in King
William's time, and lighter than those in the time of the Emperor? He
vowed that in war-time he had not more to pay than in time of peace (and
this strange fact is vouched for by every person of every nation),
and being asked wherefore the King of Holland had been ousted from
his throne, replied at once, "Parceque c'etoit un voleur:" for which
accusation I believe there is some show of reason, his Majesty having
laid hands on much Belgian property before the lamented outbreak which
cost him his crown. A vast deal of laughing and roaring passed between
these two worldly people and the postilion, whom they called "baron,"
and I thought no doubt that this talk was one of the many jokes that my
companions were in the habit of making. But not so: the postilion was an
actual baron, the bearer of an ancient name, the descendant of gallant
gentlemen. Good heavens! what would Mrs. Trollope say to see his
lordship here? His father the old baron had dissipated the family
fortune, and here was this young nobleman, at about five-and-forty,
compelled to bestride a clattering Flemish stallion, and bump over dusty
pavements at the rate of five miles an hour. But see the beauty of high
blood: with what a calm grace the man of family accommodates himself to
fortune. Far from being cast down, his lordship met his fate like a man:
he swore and laughed the whole of the journey, and as we changed horses,
condescended to partake of half a pint of Louvain beer, to which the
farmer treated him--indeed the worthy rustic treated me to a glass too.

Much delight and instruction have I had in the course of the journey
from my guide, philosopher, and friend, the author of "Murray's
Handbook." He has gathered together, indeed, a store of information,
and must, to make his single volume, have gutted many hundreds of
guide-books. How the Continental ciceroni must hate him, whoever he is!
Every English party I saw had this infallible red book in their hands,
and gained a vast deal of historical and general information from it.
Thus I heard, in confidence, many remarkable anecdotes of Charles V.,
the Duke of Alva, Count Egmont, all of which I had before perceived,
with much satisfaction, not only in the "Handbook," but