Motley is indeed inferior to his English contemporary in many striking points whose value every reader will determine for himself; but his occasional and rare inaccuracies of expression and inelegances of language are on the surface, and may be removed by the stroke of a pen without marring the general effect of his work.  He possesses, among many charms, an unfailing geniality, which, united with his fine dramatic powers, fascinates us completely.  He abounds also in fine poetical touches, that give us glimpses of a mind cultured to the last degree of literary refinement.  His ‘rows of whispering limes and poplars’ are like arabesques of gold straying over the margins of some old romanceros.  His descriptions glow with the fresh and ever-varying delight of the observant traveler, who seems to see before him for the first time the cities which, with a few vigorous and simple strokes, he transfers to big pages.  His pictures have the charm of naturalness and a simplicity that is more effective than the most ornate diffuseness.  Thus he says of the picturesque little city of Namur:  ’Seated at the confluence of the Sambre with the Meuse, and throwing over each river a bridge of solid but graceful structure, it lay in the lap of a most fruitful valley.  A broad, crescent-shaped plain, fringed by the rapid Meuse, and enclosed by gently-rolling hills, cultivated to their crests, or by abrupt precipices of limestone crowned with verdure, was divided by numerous hedgerows, and dotted all over with corn-fields, vine-yards, and flower-gardens.  Many eyes have gazed with delight upon that well-known and most lovely valley, and many torrents of blood have mingled with those glancing waters since that long-buried and most sanguinary age which forms our theme; and still, placid as ever is the valley, brightly as ever flows the stream.  Even now, as in that banished but never-forgotten time, nestles the little city in the angle of the two rivers; still directly over its head seems to hang in mid-air the massive and frowning fortress, like the gigantic helmet in the fiction, as if ready to crush the pigmy town below.’  How like the Ueberfahrt of Uhland:—­

  ’Ueber diesen Strohm, vor Jahren,
  Bin ich einmal schon gefahren,
  Hier die Burg, im Abendschimmer,
  Drueben rauscht das Wehr, wie immer.’

We may quote his description of the great square of Brussels, the scene of the double execution of Montmorency, of Horn, and the gallant and unfortunate ‘Count d’Egmont,’ not only as an example of his dignified and sustained style, but also as an evidence of his sensitiveness to those minor refinements of association and place that bespeaks the talented artist.  ’The great square of Brussels had always a striking and theatrical aspect.  Its architectural effects, suggesting in some degree the meretricious union between Oriental and a corrupt Grecian art, accomplished in the mediaeval midnight, have amazed the eyes of many