OSTEND, _June_ 21_st_.
T’other minute I was in Greece, gathering the bloom of Hymettus, but now
I am landed in Flanders, smoked with tobacco, and half poisoned with
garlic. Were I to remain ten days at Ostend, I should scarcely have one
delightful vision; ’tis so unclassic a place—nothing but preposterous
Flemish roofs disgust your eyes when you cast them upwards; swaggering
Dutchmen and mongrel barbers are the principal objects they meet with
below. I should esteem myself in luck, were the nuisances of this
seaport confined only to two senses; but, alas! the apartment above my
head proves a squalling brattery, and the sounds which proceed from it
are so loud and frequent, that a person might think himself in limbo,
without any extravagance.
Am I not an object of pity, when I tell you that I was tormented
yesterday by a similar cause? But I know not how it is; your violent
complainers are the least apt to excite compassion. I believe,
notwithstanding, if another rising generation should lodge above me at
the next inn, I shall grow as scurrilous as Dr. Smollett, and be
dignified with the appellation of the Younger Smelfungus. Well, let
those make out my diploma that will, I am determined to vent my spleen,
and like Lucifer, unable to enjoy comfort myself, tease others with the
details of my vexatious. You must know, then, since I am resolved to
grumble, that, tired with my passage, I went to the Capuchin church, a
large solemn building, in search of silence and solitude; but here again
was I disappointed. Half-a-dozen squeaking fiddles fugued and flourished
away in the galleries, and as many paralytic monks gabbled before the
altars, while a whole posse of devotees, in long white hoods and
flannels, were sweltering on either side.
Such piety, in warm weather, was no very fragrant circumstance; so I
sought the open air again as fast as I was able. The serenity of the
evening, joined to the desire I had of casting another glance over the
ocean, tempted me to the ramparts. There, at least, thought I to myself,
I may range undisturbed, and talk with my old friends the breezes, and
address my discourse to the waves, and be as romantic and whimsical as I
please; but it happened that I had scarcely begun my apostrophe, before
out flaunted a whole rank of officers, with ladies and abbés and puppy
dogs, singing, and flirting, and making such a hubbub, that I had not one
peaceful moment to observe the bright tints of the western horizon, or
enjoy the series of antique ideas with which a calm sunset never fails to
inspire me.
Finding, therefore, no quiet abroad, I returned to my inn, and should
have gone immediately to bed, in hopes of relapsing into the bosom of
dreams and delusions; but the limbo I mentioned before grew so very
outrageous, that I was obliged to postpone my rest till sugar-plums and
nursery eloquence had hushed it to repose. At length peace was restored,
and about eleven o’clock I fell into a slumber, during which the most
lovely Sicilian prospects filled the eye of my fancy. I anticipated the
classic scenes of that famous island, and forgot every sorrow in the
meadows of Enna.
Next morning, awakened by the sunbeams, I arose quite refreshed by the
agreeable impressions of my dream, and filled with presages of future
happiness in the climes which had inspired them. No other idea but such
as Trinacria and Naples suggested, haunted me whilst travelling to Ghent.
I neither heard the vile Flemish dialect which was talking around me, nor
noticed formal avenues and marshy country which we passed. When we
stopped to change horses, I closed my eyes upon the whole scene, and was
transported immediately to some Grecian solitude, where Theocritus and
his shepherds were filling the air with melody. To one so far gone in
poetic antiquity, Ghent is not the most likely place to recall his
attention; and I know nothing more about it, than that it is a large,
ill-paved, dismal-looking city, with a decent proportion of convents and
chapels, stuffed with monuments, brazen gates, and glittering marbles.
In the great church were two or three pictures by Rubens, mechanically
excellent, but these realities were not designed in so graceful a manner
as to divert my attention from the mere descriptions Pausanias gives us
of the works of Grecian artists, and I would at any time fall asleep in a
Flemish cathedral, for a vision of the temple of Olympian Jupiter. But I
think I hear, at this moment, some grave and respectable personage
chiding me for such levities, and saying, “Really, Sir, you had better
stay at home, and dream in your great chair, than give yourself the
trouble of going post through Europe, in search of inspiring places to
fall asleep. If Flanders and Holland are to be dreamed over at this
rate, you had better take ship at once, and doze all the way to Italy.”
Upon my word, I should not have much objection to that scheme; and, if
some cabalist would but transport me in an instant to the summit of Ætna,
any body might slop through the Low Countries that pleased.
Being, however, so far advanced, there was no retracting; and as it is
now three or four years since I have almost abandoned the hopes of
discovering a necromancer, I resolved to journey along with Quiet and
Content for my companions. These two comfortable deities have, I
believe, taken Flanders under their especial protection; every step one
advances discovering some new proof of their influence. The neatness of
the houses, and the universal cleanliness of the villages, show plainly
that their inhabitants live in ease and good humour. All is still and
peaceful in these fertile lowlands: the eye meets nothing but round,
unmeaning faces at every door, and harmless stupidity smiling at every
window. The beasts, as placid as their masters, graze on without any
disturbance; and I scarcely recollect to have heard one grunting swine or
snarling mastiff during my whole progress. Before every village is a
wealthy dunghill, not at all offensive, because but seldom disturbed; and
there they bask in the sun, and wallow at their ease, till the hour of
death and bacon arrives, when capacious paunches await them. If I may
judge from the healthy looks and reposed complexions of the Flemings,
they have every reason to expect a peaceful tomb.
But it is high time to leave our swinish moralities behind us, and to jog
on towards Antwerp. More rich pastures, more ample fields of grain, more
flourishing willows!—a boundless plain before this city, dotted with cows
and flowers, from whence its spires and quaint roofs are seen to
advantage. The pale colours of the sky, and a few gleams of watery
sunshine, gave a true Flemish cast to the scenery, and everything
appeared so consistent, that I had not a shadow of pretence to think
myself asleep.
After crossing a broad, noble river, edged on one side by beds of osiers
beautifully green, and on the other by gates and turrets preposterously
ugly, we came through several streets of lofty houses to our inn. Its
situation in the “Place de Mer,” a vast open space surrounded by
buildings above buildings, and roof above roof, has something striking
and singular. A tall gilt crucifix of bronze, sculptured by some famous
artist, adds to its splendour; and the tops of some tufted trees, seen
above a line of magnificent hotels, have no bad effect in the
perspective.
It was almost dusk when we arrived; and as I am very partial to new
objects discovered by this dubious visionary light, I went immediately
a-rambling. Not a sound disturbed my meditations; there were no groups
of squabbling children or talkative old women. The whole town seemed
retired into their inmost chambers; and I kept winding and turning about,
from street to street, and from alley to alley, without meeting a single
inhabitant. Now and then, indeed, one or two women in long cloaks and
mantles glided about at a distance; but their dress was so shroud-like,
and their whole appearance so ghostly, that I was more than half afraid
to accost them. As the night approached, the ranges of buildings grew
more and more dim, and the silence which reigned amongst them more awful.
The canals, which in some places intersect the streets, were likewise in
perfect solitude, and there was just light sufficient for me to observe
on the still waters the reflection of the structures above them. Except
two or three tapers glimmering through the casements, no one circumstance
indicated human existence. I might, without being thought very romantic,
have imagined myself in the city of petrified people, which Arabian
fabulists are so fond of describing. Were any one to ask my advice upon
the subject of retirement, I should tell him,—By all means repair to
Antwerp. No village amongst the Alps, or hermitage upon Mount Lebanon,
is less disturbed: you may pass your days in this great city without
being the least conscious of its sixty thousand inhabitants, unless you
visit the churches. There, indeed, are to be heard a few devout
whispers, and sometimes, to be sure, the bells make a little chiming; but
walk about, as I do, in the twilights of midsummer, and be assured your
ears will be free from all molestation.
You can have no idea how many strange, amusing fancies played around me
whilst I wandered along; nor how delighted I was with the novelty of my
situation. But a few days ago, thought I within myself, I was in the
midst of all the tumult and uproar of London: now, as if by some magic
influence, I am transported to a city equally remarkable for streets and
edifices, but whose inhabitants seem cast into a profound repose. What a
pity that we cannot borrow some small share of this soporific
disposition! It would temper that restless spirit which throws us
sometimes into such dreadful convulsions. However, let us not be too
precipitate in desiring so dead a calm; the time may arrive when, like
Antwerp, we may sink into the arms of forgetfulness; when a fine verdure
may carpet our Exchange, and passengers traverse the Strand, without any
danger of being smothered in crowds, or lost in the confusion of
carriages.
Reflecting, in this manner, upon the silence of the place, contrasted
with the important bustle which formerly rendered it so famous, I
insensibly drew near to the cathedral, and found myself, before I was
aware, under its stupendous tower. It is difficult to conceive an object
more solemn or imposing than this edifice at the hour I first beheld it.
Dark shades hindered my examining the lower galleries or windows; their
elaborate carved work was invisible; nothing but huge masses of building
met my sight, and the tower, shooting up four hundred and sixty-six feet
into the air, received an additional importance from the gloom which
prevailed below. The sky being perfectly clear, several stars twinkled
through the mosaic of the spire, and added not a little to its enchanted
effect. I longed to ascend it that instant, to stretch myself out upon
its very summit, and calculate from so sublime an elevation the influence
of the planets.
Whilst I was indulging my astrological reveries, a ponderous bell struck
ten, and such a peal of chimes succeeded, as shook the whole edifice,
notwithstanding its bulk, and drove me away in a hurry. No mob
obstructed my passage, and I ran through a succession of streets, free
and unmolested, as if I had been skimming along over the downs of
Wiltshire. My servants conversing before the hotel were the only sounds
which the great “Place de Mer” echoed.
This universal stillness was the more pleasing, when I looked back upon
those scenes of horror and outcry which filled London but a week or two
ago, when danger was not confined to night only, and the environs of the
capital, but haunted our streets at midday. Here, I could wander over an
entire city; stray by the port, and venture through the most obscure
alleys, without a single apprehension; without beholding a sky red and
portentous with the light of fires, or hearing the confused and
terrifying murmurs of shouts and groans, mingled with the reports of
artillery. I can assure you, I think myself very fortunate to have
escaped the possibility of another such week of desolation, and to be
peaceably roosted at Antwerp. Were I not still fatigued with my heavy
progress through sands and quagmires, I should descant a little longer
upon the blessings of so quiet a metropolis, but it is growing late, and
I must retire to enjoy it.