the heavy breed of this country. Flanders
Mares--as Henry VIII. tells us by comparing his queen to one--have never
been remarkable for elegance and activity, and I was much entertained in
seeing an Englishman break in a couple of these for a Tandem.

...At our Table d'hote, where we met nothing but English merchants, I
heard the report of the day that Belgium was to be a sort of independent
state, under the Prince of Orange's government, according to its old
laws and customs, and that he was to hold a court at Bruxelles.... The
Prince of Orange is now in fact gone to make his public entrance into
Bruxelles....

There is a custom that the key of the town should be presented to the
possessor or Governor of the Town on a magnificent silver-gilt plate.
When the Cossack chief came, as usual, the key was offered, which the
good, simple man quietly took, put into his pocket, and forgot to
return. When I saw the dish, the man told me this anecdote, and lamented
wofully the loss of his key, which may possibly in future turn the lock
of some dirty cupboard or other on the banks of the Don. It seems these
Cossacks were immensely rich. Latterly I have been assured they could
not fight had they been inclined, from the excessive height of their
saddles and weight of their clothes; on the one they could scarcely sit,
and with the others they could scarcely walk. They had always 3 or 4
Coats or coverings, and in the folds of these were unkennelled 1,330
Napoleons on one of them who happened to die at Bruxelles.

We quitted Antwerp after dinner yesterday for Bergen op Zoom by a new
sort of conveyance; by way of variety we "voitured" it, viz., hired a
carriage, driver, and horses for Breda on our way to Amsterdam. It was a
nice sort of Gig Phaeton, with comfortable seats for 4, the Driver on
the front bench. I fear I must retract what I said in the beginning of
this letter, as to the decided change in houses and people here. It was
most conspicuous about Malines, but on this road there was nothing
remarkable one way or the other.

Our road was, however, Dutch throughout. Upon a sort of raised dyke,
between a monotonous avenue of stunted willows, did we jog gently on,
with nothing to relieve the eye but here and there a windmill or a farm.
On our left we saw, as far as eye could reach, the Swamp (or I scarcely
know what to call it), which fills up the spaces between the Main and
South Beveland, and it almost gave me the Walcheren fever